


Mutual Attraction

by meet_me_in_samarra



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Sherlock Holmes, Drug Addict Sherlock, Drug Use, Idiots in Love, Injured Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Pining John Watson, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Prostitution, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock-centric, Sherlock_Author_Showcase_2020 collection, Sherlock´s Past, Slow Burn, Suicidal Ideation, case-related violence/torture, casefic, don´t copy to another site, pre BBC canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:34:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 93,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24944692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meet_me_in_samarra/pseuds/meet_me_in_samarra
Summary: The day when a homeless drug addict and a suicidal ex-soldier met was the beginning of something until then unheard-of: Mutual Attraction.Of course, not all was what it looked like in the first place but the days of boredom, loneliness and lack of purpose were history. A case had to be solved, lives had to be saved and a developing relationship had to be tackled.COVER ART for chapters 4-20 now in this series: "Teaser Art for "Mutual Attraction" by meet_me_in_samarra"Many thanks and love to PeaGeeTibbs who selflessly offered to beta/proof read
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 196
Kudos: 172
Collections: Sherlock Author Showcase 2020





	1. SHOCK

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (can be safely ignored)
> 
> Hiya Sherlockians everywhere!
> 
> I´ve been blabbing in some answers to your comments (Thanks for those again, love them all!) on my other fics about writing a long story and now it´s finally done! It started over two years ago with an image in my head which evolved into the first chapter.  
> I´m still very surprised and also pleased I managed tackling what has become these 80K words because I´ve actually never written anything before. In between I got stuck with Mutual Attraction and so I posted Wretched and Divine easing my urge to finally contribute something to this brilliant fandom myself. The love W&D and my other two fics got egged me on to finish “the long one“.  
> Hope you enjoy it.  
> And of course I don´t own anything apart from my wild imagination what could have happened to the characters we all love and are addicted to.  
> Samarra

I´ve run out of all that I was

And I´m searching for the meaning and ended up lost

But I see the light at the end of the road

It´s guiding me home where I´ll heal all

That was left bleeding while their words still burn

These scars are another lesson learned

Limitless, Crown The Empire

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade of the Homicide Division of New Scotland Yard had experienced a really bad day so far. It all started with him feeling slightly sick in the morning like becoming ill with the flu. By midday his head had been awfully throbbing with a vicious migraine and the painkillers hadn´t worked at all.

The investigation of the cases of the two dead overdosed (and supposedly murdered) drug addicts stalled because anyone that could possibly know something helpful about the situation was stubbornly refusing to talk to the police. No wonder there, them all being junkies, dealers, rent boys and other unsavoury folk that usually shied away from speaking to any people working in law enforcement.

The circumstances about the (still not absolutely confirmed but very likely) murders were mysterious and absolutely ugly, to say the least. Of course the tabloid papers had gotten wind soon enough after the first one had been found and were on it like a pack of crazy bloodhounds. Especially since there was now a second victim showing the same disconcerting settings.

The meagre facts were that within the last couple of days two bodies had been found, the first had been disposed in the cellar of a vacant building; the second got thrown into the Thames and washed ashore on a riverbank downstream.

The first had been discovered by a homeless bloke who was looking for a place to sleep and who at least anonymously called the emergency hotline before he´d vanished not willing to face the police in person.

The second body, whose identity had yet to be discovered, had been found by an old lady who took her leashed mini pig named Snuffles out on a walk at the riverside. During the interrogation of the cute little lady yesterday Snuffles managed to escape and had to be chased through the rooms of New Scotland Yard much to the huge amusement as well annoyance of its employees.

Both victims shared an alarming amount of physical similarities. Both were male, young (one was only 19 years of age, the other had to be in his early twenties), both looked rather boyish, they were small, slender and fair-haired. Both were addicted and had several illegal substances in their blood. The younger one, David O`Leary, was called “Missy“ and despite his age was already well known to the police for prostitution and possession of drugs. He had run away from home and had vanished on the streets of London.

The disquieting part of all this was that before they died, they had been restrained, raped and perfidiously tortured and both had died of a heroin overdose. But since one of them was known to work as a rent boy the rape issue was not quite certain and the heroin overdose could as well be self-inflicted.

The way the bodies were mutilated and beaten was sickening. They had been tortured with a jagged knife, cigarettes and a razor while still alive. The pattern was nearly identical and the victims had definitely not agreed with this treatment because they showed signs of struggling against it. But they had also been bound in a style used in BDSM which threw up the question of consensuality again.

The information the Yard revealed to the press was strictly redacted. They only knew that the victims were both young blond male drug addicts that died of a heroin overdose in suspiciously identical circumstances and right now the damn reporters were falling over each other in their eagerness to come up with the best and most ludicrous theory of a smackhead-hunting serial killer. Greg was afraid that they were right about that serial issue.

Thinking about this brought DI Lestrade back to his most pestering problem at the moment: the imminent threat of the scheduled press conference for “The Drugged Druggies“ as the papers had titled the cases that was to take place in the late afternoon. Greg sighed.

_They really managed every time to reach an even higher level of ridiculous headlines_.

To the DI´s great discomfort his ever reliable co-worker Sergeant Sally Donovan was still at home in bed being incapacitated by an evil case of stomach upset. Greg desperately hoped it had not been anything she had eaten from the canteen of Scotland Yard. Anyway, he had to face the bloody press all by himself.

He definitely hated that part of his job. Somehow they always managed to get behind his defences so that sooner or later he would say something that he´d utterly regret afterwards. Sally was much more suitable for this since she never lost her cool, never let slip something and never made personal comments.

The latter was what Lestrade regretted just now full of loathing for the reporters and anger directed against him after the disastrous conference. The press had been nagging him on and on with more or less subtle but unmistakable accusations that the police wasn´t really interested in solving the murders of worthless drug addicts but rather being relieved that there were two less of them.

Finally Greg had become so angry at these ongoing mean and clearly untrue insults and allegations that he had snapped.

He´d exclaimed: “We consider all human lives as equally valuable, even if they´re the scum of our society!“

Right, the bastards had their headlines for tomorrow. He had delivered it perfectly. Greg could already feel the shitstorm that was coming at him. He swore to himself to _never_ _ever_ be the head speaker of a press conference again, public relations were just not his division.

Lestrade decided to confess his slip to his superiors that same evening so no one would be caught off guard by acrimonious comments in the press tomorrow and to get it off his mind. He had enough to deal with the frustrating junkie case without waiting for being ordered to explain himself to his chief.

After the expected dressing down by his superior the D.I. only wanted to smoke a calming cigarette, get home and forget the whole ordeal. He decided to text Sherlock Holmes again the next morning, the aggravating prat had still not answered him the whole day.

Holmes was already on the first homicide because Greg knew Sherlock had a lot of connections to the inhabitants of London´s underbelly through his infamous Homeless Network.

_Hopefully Sherlock could get some useful information out of this scum. I mean valuable members of our society._

The insufferable genius had been invited to the crime scene where the first victim had been found to investigate the case but until today had not come up with any further details. He´d contacted Greg the day before yesterday but had not shown up to their appointment.

Which was not so unusual come to think of it. Maybe it was just too boring a case after all. Sherlock was well known to simply forget about too pedestrian deaths. Just that these deaths weren´t pedestrian at all. On the other hand nobody really understood what was going on in this special brain of his…Greg was rather annoyed than worried about Sherlock´s silence.

Lestrade wanted to inform the so-called consulting detective about the second victim. He could literally hear Sherlock´s delightful shouting when finding out. Potential serial killers were right upon his street. He´d definitely be more committed afterwards.

Greg knew the genius and his peculiar social behaviour and multitude of quirks very well and if he didn´t want to get into contact he simply would not. No matter what common courtesy or simple consideration of someone else´s feelings would suggest.

The DI would have his cigarette before he fetched his car and drove home so he took the backstairs and left the building into the small alley behind Scotland Yard that led to the driveway for the underground car park. Lestrade stopped near a small niche where several skips were placed. One of the two streetlights was broken and therefore the niche was bathed in deep shadows.

Relishing in inhaling the first tangy smoke Greg heard a grating noise from in between the skips followed by a soft moan. Alarmed Lestrade fixed his eyes towards it and tried to focus on the shadows. It was not an animal making these sounds. He saw that there was someone moving, a man who had cowered with his back against the brick wall and was now struggling to stand up wincing as he tried. It seemed to be a very painful process and as the man finally managed to stand he swayed on the spot and had to grab one of the skips with his right hand to steady himself. His breathing was hard and ragged.

Greg waited calmly to see what the man was up to and kept smoking casually. The figure stepped out between the skips where the light of the streetlamp from the opposite pavement partly caught him. He was reeling heavily.

_Is he drunk? Rather high on drugs!_

The figure had to lean his back against the front of the closest skip. Not able to rise his head with matted hair instead letting it hang down as he took another couple of shallow rasping breaths.

_Maybe finally somebody of the drug scene decided to talk to us about something he witnessed in relation to the murder victims? That would be too good to be true._

Greg could now take a closer look at the man´s appearance. The first thing that came into Lestrade´s mind was that _this_ was the most wretched human being he had ever laid his eyes upon. The man was incredibly filthy, bloodstained, trembling and looked like death warmed over. Greg drew in a sharp breath and eyed the other more thoroughly.

The guy wore a pair of stained tattered jeans which might once have been blue but were now of an undefinable dirty colour. The fabric at his knees was completely ripped so that one could see the whole of both very angular joints through it. The skin there was encrusted with old blood and dirt where large pieces had been abraded badly.

The whole right side of the tall and very thin man up to the hair on the hanging head was caked with something that looked like a dried mixture of oil and mud. He must have fallen into a puddle of it.

The man also wore a washed out holey hoodie with widely frayed cuffs that was at least two sizes too large. It rather flapped around him like a sail. The seam at the right shoulder had been torn so that a sharp collarbone was exposed showing a nasty and deep cut. The flesh had been more shredded than cleanly cut where a jagged blade had hit him. The gash had bled all over the front of the hoodie and was still slightly oozing blood.

The hoodie´s lower left arm had been ripped off at the height of his elbow and had been wrapped around the palm of the man´s left hand in a makeshift dressing equally soaked with fresh red blood.

The bloke had finally managed to lift his head and the whole body was shaking due to the strain of not keeling over right on the spot as he tried to look the DI straight into the eyes.

Lestrade could not help but gape in shock. 

_If I wasn´t sure that zombies don´t exist…here is the perfect specimen lurching around._

Greg blinked several times. The whole posture of the miserable figure was that of a man who could hardly even hold himself upright a minute longer.

The man steadied himself again with a desperate grasp at the skip beside him, took a deep raspy breath before croaking: “I… I need…“ He coughed and a gurgling sound emerged from his lungs.

“You need an ambulance“, stated Greg drily and fumbled for the mobile in the pocket of his jacket.

But the guy took a staggering step forward and extended his left arm in a gesture to stop Greg from doing so. Now fully in the light of the streetlamp Lestrade noticed first that there was a mass of ugly injection marks on the skin of the left forearm.

_So he is definitely a junkie. Just what I need now after this shitty day. What a mess!_

In addition, even more disconcerting was that the addict somehow suddenly held a bloodstained knife in his injured left hand.

_Damn!_ _Where has the weapon suddenly come from?_

The junkie rasped: “Don´t! …I need …your…“ He gestured insecurely with his knife towards Lestrade. His hand was trembling so much that the knife would fall down soon from the weakened grasp.

D.I. Gregory Lestrade suddenly felt all of the anger of that terrible day well up in a wave of hot fire. The menacing gesture with the knife was the final straw. Lestrade yelled at the wretched creature, scorn distorting his voice.

“You need a hit and you want my money. You stupid wanker! Right in front of New Scotland Yard you´re trying to _fucking_ mug me?“

Instead of the mobile Lestrade pulled out his service weapon deliberately putting the safety switch off but not yet aiming it at his would-be mugger.

“You put down the knife _now_ , get down on your knees and hands behind your head!“, the DI snarled.

The junkie flinched as if having received a punch to the guts and a heavy shiver ran through the weak and bruised body. He let the knife slip from his hand and it clattered loudly to the ground before his feet.

Raising his injured hand in a pleading gesture he whined: “I need…your help... _Gavin…_ please. Please!“ and then with his one still functioning eye he caught Greg´s.

Had it not been for the unusual pale blue grey colour of the one iris that stared so desperately at Greg´s eyes the DI would not have recognized Sherlock Holmes at all. His usually so handsome face was swollen and beaten up beyond recognition. One eye was completely closed, black and blue bruises disfigured his skin and he sported a likely broken nose and a split lip. Blood everywhere.

Finally Lestrade found his voice again and cried out: “Oh my God! Sherlock! What happened to you? Where…“

But he got no further. With a pained sound of anguish Sherlock began to break down as his knees gave way and he collapsed slowly to the ground. Greg quickly jumped forward and managed to catch Sherlock´s forearms tightly, supporting his weight (much too less for an adult this tall) and lowered him carefully down on his side on the street.

Cradling the head of his now uncontrollably shaking and seemingly unconscious friend in his lap Greg searched frantically for his mobile phone. After calling a paramedic and ambulance the D.I. tried to fight down the mounting panic inside him. Despite the trembling Sherlock´s body was burning up.

_What on earth have you done this time? What the fuck have you gotten yourself into_? _Why are you not in hospital?_

Lestrade had seen Sherlock in quite a state sometimes before today having known him for several years, mostly when he had relapsed back into his old drug habit, but this was different. This was terribly _wrong_. Sherlock looked like death personified.

Greg was not sure what scared him the most: the severely injured state of Sherlock´s body, the sight of the multiple injection marks on the forearms indicating that he must have been heavily using again or the utterly unbelievable fact that Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes had actually pleaded for help. _Twice_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I´m still not certain if the members of the Homicide Division of NSY in reality carry service weapons mostly, partly or not at all. Anyway due to BAMF-y reasons, my Greg does.


	2. ENNUI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that chapter 2 is very short (the shortest of all 20) and more of an introductory sort. That´s why I´ll post chapter 3 as well to keep your curiosity and suspense up 😁.  
> Thank you all for reading and bookmarking and subscribing so far! Don´t hesitate to recommend the fic if you enjoyed it 😉, just please do not post the text anywhere else.  
> Thanks again to the lovely inevitably-johnlocked who recommended Mutual Attraction on her tumblr in the Five Fics Friday to read list.

You might wake up and notice you´re someone you´re not

If you look in the mirror and don´t like what you see

You can find out, first hand, what it´s like to be me

The End, My Chemical Romance

Sherlock Holmes, the world´s only consulting detective, was really bored out of his mind. Deeply, utterly, terribly and completely _bored_. Sherlock did not tolerate boredom very well. In fact it was the one thing that he could not bear at all. Apart from idiocy, that was. And sentiment. People in general as well. Thinking of it, he actually could not stand a hell of a lot of things. Which was why most people could not stand _him_.

He paced around his new flat at 221b Baker Street like a tiger in a cage throwing scornful looks at his belongings and all the stuff that lay scattered around everywhere on the ground and cluttered all available flat surfaces. They were even piled up on sloping surfaces in precarious heaps where things were supposed to start sliding down eventually. Only to fall noisily to the ground, adding to the overall mess.

Maybe he should experiment on the exact angle and weight of how many books he could pile up on which surface without them toppling over? But no, that was boring, too. And worse there would be even more items scattered around on the floor which of course would remain there, for he had no intention to clear them away himself. Sherlock had not yet figured out how to entice his new landlady enough to coax her into doing all the cleaning-up for him. But thinking about using her was also tedious and it did not sit well with him which was astonishing in a way because Sherlock normally had no qualms to get people do as he pleased.

Mrs Hudson owed him a favour since he had got rid of this terrible husband of her but she already let him have the flat in Baker Street for such a ridiculously low rent. Also she had a bad hip. All the stooping would not do her any good and since she was one of the very few persons that did cope quite well with all of Sherlock´s innumerable quirks he felt a strange reluctance to manipulate her into doing something she normally wouldn´t. He suspected that she actually liked him, curious as this was.

So Sherlock, grinding his teeth internally as he struggled hard even to admit it privately, found himself liking her back. Obviously he had to find someone else to do all the tedious household chores, all of them being devastatingly boring and the reason for at least half of them was hardly understandable why they had to be done at all.

Maybe he should really try to find a new flatmate after all. One that would stay longer than the usual week before leaving either utterly appalled of or deadly infuriated by Sherlock. To be correct, most had been both when they left him after a lot of shouting.

So still no experiment on the sliding angle of books because it was already quite a challenge to navigate through the flat without tripping on something. Why did everything has to become such mess in such a short time anyway? Oh yes, Sherlock sighed, _entropy_. A system always tends to achieve the utmost degree of disorder. So it was not Sherlock´s fault at all and he was simply helpless in the face of the iron laws of thermodynamics.

And wasn´t there a saying that only the small minded ones kept order whereas the genius could master the chaos? So. There was no doubt that Sherlock Holmes was a proper genius. A brilliant genius in fact. A brilliantly _bored_ genius, to be precise.

Sherlock had no idea of any experiment he could conduct in his improvised kitchen lab either. He currently had no spare body parts to play with and was too exhausted to drag himself to the morgue of St. Bart´s hospital to see if he could commandeer something there. The experiment with the human kidneys he had set up yesterday was time and temperature sensitive, meaning that he had to wait for the outcome. Boring.

Even worse, there were no cases from New Scotland Yard, no serial killings, in fact no killings at all which was really completely horrible. Either, no abductions, no terrorist threats, not even armed robberies, no spectacular thefts or locked-room mysteries, simply none of all the nice crimes that made his life as a consulting detective so worthwhile. No distractions from his utter boredom.

All of Greater London´s criminals seemed to be on a holiday since it was one of the warmest and least wet summers they had had in a long time. How utterly _hateful_. So Sherlock found himself again still pacing restlessly around, dealing out annoyed kicks at the various items on the floor, desperately searching for something to occupy himself with and to stop his brain from finally tearing itself apart due to the severe lack of stimulating input.

He considered shooting at the wall to vent some of his general frustration but managed to restrain himself for now, since this habit of his had been the final straw to be thrown out of the Montague Street flat two weeks ago. Thinking of that, it could also have been the minor explosion in the bathroom which had damaged the tub. Only slightly as one could still take a bath in it. You just had to make sure the water would not be too high so that it could not leak out at the place where a piece of the side wall was missing.

Or maybe it had been the experiment with the horse tapeworms. He had gutted them and dried the long leathery carcasses on a rope that he had spanned across the sitting room only to eventually forget about them. When his ex-landlady stormed into the flat to complain about his ongoing screeching violin she accidentally ran into the washing line and got tangled in it and also in the dried leathery tapeworms clipped to it. Sherlock found that her disgusted screeching which followed was much worse and more unnerving that his violin could ever be.

Maybe telling her that had been a mistake.

Just to have something to fiddle with and to relieve the urge of having to actively take something into his hands, Sherlock ambled towards an abandoned moving box in the corner of the kitchen. The former female tenant of the flat had left some books behind which she did not want to take to her new home and Mrs Hudson had no use for them either.

With a god awful deep rumbling sigh as if he had to perform the ultimate sacrifice Sherlock bent his knees and crouched down beside the box. Already exasperated he pushed the hem of his flowing blue dressing gown out of the way as he crossed his long legs and leant with his back against one of the kitchen cupboards. Sherlock wriggled his naked toes before he raked his long spidery fingers through the unruly black curls on his head, not bothering if they would become even more dishevelled.

They felt greasy and his fingers got tangled.

By the way, when had he last combed his hair? Or washed it? Or washed himself, shaved himself, ate anything? Had tea? Sherlock wrecked his brain that normally stored away every detail securely for a lifetime in the vast spaces of his mind palace, only to be considered again when necessary, but he honestly could not recall when he last did some personal grooming or anything to sustain his transport. All of this was so dull and tedious anyway.

Not that his looks were of any importance at the moment. Sherlock was alone, he did not plan to go anywhere or see anyone so logically there was definitely no need for pretending to be in a socially acceptable state. At least _physically_ socially acceptable. His manners were never socially acceptable anyway but he really could not be arsed to act like a “decent“ or “normal“ human being was supposed to. Normal was boring.

His general behaviour was not anywhere even close to socially acceptable most of the time, he was rude, arrogant, condescending and over all acrimonious and since he had the habit of saying exactly what he was thinking of the people surrounding him (nobody liked hearing the truth about themselves) and even worse his deductions were always quite to the point so that Sherlock´s co-humans all looked like utter idiots compared to Sherlock´s superior brain. Sherlock did not care about that at all. He was so used to people not liking or even hating him that he was utterly surprised and instantly suspicious if someone acted differently when it came to that.

With another deep sigh of slowly approaching brain death due to utmost boredom, Sherlock opened the lid of the box and put it away. As he had already feared, his first glance told him that there would be nothing interesting in it at all.

Anyway, he started to unpack the cheap paperbacks and found a lot of romantic stories

_Urgh, disgusting_

some crime novels

_How inane_

a cookbook “How to conjure a perfect meal for the devoted husband“

_Unbelievably hilarious_

and several books with jokes

_No idea what one would need those for_

Just at the bottom he found a large and heavy book that looked more promising. Sherlock furrowed his brows as he stared at a very old edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. He opened the lid of the beautifully leather bound book and found the date “1909“ scribbled onto the first page.

_Now this is old. Probably valuable._

Sherlock stood up leaving the scattered paperbacks on the kitchen floor succumbing once more to the pull of entropy and strolled towards the sofa where he collapsed with a huff and a snort. A small pile of loose papers which had been balanced delicately on one of the armrests started to collapse serenely and the documents slithered to the threadbare rug like autumn leaves.

Sherlock started to read some of the ancient entries. They were definitely out of date, of course. But since he still had nothing better to do he struggled against the irresistable wish to take up a pencil and correct the false data only to relieve his ennui. What a foul day!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the scene in Parade´s End when Christopher passive aggressively corrects the Enc. Brit.  
> LOL


	3. CASE

Stuck in my head again

Feels like I´ll never leave this place

There´s no escape

I´m my own worst enemy…

…Tell me what the fuck is wrong with me!

Given Up, Linkin Park

Sherlock had been lying on the sofa for about four hours in which he had leafed through most of the entries in the ancient encyclopaedia. Unexpected as it was it had been rather entertaining to compare the outdated knowledge to today´s.

He was startled out of his musing by the loud insistent ringing of the doorbell of 221b. Sherlock did not budge a muscle (too tedious) but instead shouted loudly.

“Mrs Hudson, the door!“

He listened if she would shuffle out of 221a and open it for him. Maybe D.I. Lestrade had finally something resembling an interesting case? He even considered taking on a four, desperate as things were.

But there was no shuffling and the doorbell rang again, the would-be visitor pushing it more powerfully this time. With a huff of annoyance Sherlock rose and reluctantly padded down the stairs himself. He did not bother with his unkempt state, body unshowered, hair messy and his face scruffy. He ony wore his baggy blue pajama bottoms and a frayed black t-shirt with a worn-out neckline that had slipped sideways to show the edgy bones of his shoulder.

_Won´t like it? Feel free to leave._

Sherlock reached the narrow corridor to the main entrance and looking at the door of 221a he saw it was locked and Mrs Hudson was obviously not at home. He eventually remembered that it was Tuesday afternoon which meant his landlady was probably at Mrs Turner´s for their weekly bridge match.

The bell rang again, this time even angrier.

Sherlock shouted: “For God´s sake, I´m coming. Stop ringing whatever moron you are and just wait.“

He pronounced the last “t“ sharply. Hopefully the person was worth his time having bothered him to take the long journey down the seventeen steps. At least it was a distraction from his terrifying ennui.

Sherlock opened the door and found himself face to face with an impatient looking Billy Wiggins. That was unusual to say the least. The members of his Homeless Network almost never came to where Sherlock was living, they rather left notes in his letterbox or texted him on the mobile. Not that they weren´t allowed to come, Sherlock did not care at all to be seen with or visited by unsavoury folk, they just did not want to make contact with him so openly.

Of course Billy Wiggins was special among the at the best dodgy homeless people, being one of Sherlock´s longest contacts on the streets. Billy was not even really homeless, he ran a derelict house where the drug addicts went for shooting up and also supplied them with narcotics. Some of them he had cooked himself being a rather capable chemist and also quite intelligent in spite of his ragged looks and hollow eyed face.

He had also provided Sherlock numerous times with his favourite drugs before, namely liquid cocaine and morphine. That was how they had met in the first place. Sherlock had been severely addicted back then, relapsing viciously after his second stint in a rehab clinic. He had needed a backup for his main dealer Brian if the man should be impeded and Sherlock had had to find himself another dependable supplier. Which Mr. Wiggins proved to be.

Billy was using himself from time to time but he was still astonishingly reliable, sold only pure substances to his clients and his gruff manners simply hid the fact that he was quite good-natured and actually caring about people (even if he supplied them with drugs) deep down in his not so rotten soul. It was a personal trait that he shared with Sherlock though neither of them would ever have admitted to that. Both men had a facade to uphold, Sherlock the cold calculating genius detective and Billy the ruthless wicked drug dealer one had to be afraid of. That made his business a lot safer for Billy.

And so, strange as it was, Sherlock trusted Billy more than most of the other people he had to deal with and if he had not been Sherlock Holmes who did not _befriend_ people Billy could have been one. A friend, that is.

“Oi, Shezza, care to let me in or must we prattle on the doorstep?“ Billy drawled and tried to squeeze past the detective. He still called Sherlock by his junkie name which he had used when he had been living on the streets.

Sherlock snorted derisively: “If you insist.“

But he stepped aside, secretly pleased to see Billy even if it would only be for distracting him from his never resting brain and current utter boredom.

“First floor“, he gestured upwards.

Billy trudged upstairs through the door and stared dumbfounded at the clutter that covered nearly every inch of Sherlock´s sitting room. And also the kitchen as Billy would find out later.

“You already caused another explosion after only two weeks in the new flat?“ he chuckled.

Sherlock did not deign answering and only sniffed: “What do you want? I´m busy.“

Billy turned around and eyed his ex-client critically: “You look like shite. Are you shooting up again? Why didn´t you buy from me?“

He sounded genuinely insulted and even a bit concerned. People would think that Billy simply was put off because another dealer made the profit but Sherlock knew him well enough to understand that he was worrying about the purity of the drugs he eventually consumed and therefore about his safety.

Sherlock griped: “Don´t be stupid. I was just too occupied to bother with showering or eating. Utterly boring things to do.“

“You don´t say! Just come to me if you need something, will you?“ Billy showed Sherlock a crooked toothy smile knowing damn well that the other was telling a lie.

“I don´t need _anything_ of you. At all!“ Sherlock spat.

“You´re such a stroppy sunshine, aren´t you.“

“Shut up Billy. Be useful and make tea.“ Sherlock waved his long fingered hand dismissively towards the kitchen.

Billy snorted but went there anyway to put the kettle on. First he had to empty it of an undefinable yellowish liquid then he looked suspiciously at the chemistry set that occupied the whole of the kitchen table. Afterwards Billy scrutinized the accumulation of dirty tea cups in the sink and kicked the paperbacks scattered on the floor aside that obstructed the access to the drawers.

“Do you have any clean mugs left or shall I use one of these?“ Billy peeked around the sliding door that separated the kitchen from the sitting room holding up a scratched beaker and continued, frowning at the originator of the chaos “And are these tea bags safe?“

“Since when do you care for clean? If the tea bags don´t have a red label then they are free of rat poison. Now will you finally explain why I have to suffer your unbearable presence?“ Sherlock had sprawled in a messy heap on the sofa again.

Billy just sighed and by the sounds he made he must have started to clean two mugs.

“There´s a problem with the specialized rent boys, three are missing and since no one would care if they´re dead the other boys begged me to ask you if you would help find them.“

Sherlock´s reply was acerbic and incredulous: “Why the hell do they entertain the delusion that _I´d_ _care_ for them?“

“They don´t. They know you´re a cold and heartless bastard but you´d still like the challenge of a good puzzle and also would not have your Network diminished.“

“Hmph.“ Billy could see Sherlock´s petulant expression right through the wall.

Both men remained silent for several minutes until Billy ambled out of the kitchen, two steaming mugs in his hands. He placed them on the cluttered coffee table and glared down at Sherlock who occupied the whole sofa with his long lanky limbs.

“If you don´t budge I´ll just drop down on your stomach.“

“Piss off!“ Sherlock growled but finally moved his legs out of the way. Of course he made an awful show of it as if Billy had demanded something excruciatingly bothersome. Billy just looked at him while sipping his tea noisily. He raised an eyebrow.

“Drama queen, that´s what you are.“ He added drily. Sherlock pouted.

Billy flopped down and continued to just stare at the detective with a smug smirk on his face. After another minute of silent sulking Sherlock caved in. “What can possibly be so puzzling about missing prostitutes?“

After both men had talked for approximately an hour Sherlock had learned all there was to know about his new case. He summarized the facts and filed them securely away in his mind palace.

The three missing male prostitutes offered so-called “special services“ to their predominantly male clients meaning that they complied to very rough sexual practices that could cause lasting scars or injuries. They would submit to extremely dangerous or humiliating techniques because they were desperate enough to earn money to sustain their various drug habits since all of them were severely addicted.

The first missing rent boy went by the moniker “Cocky“, which was really incredibly stupid Sherlock thought, his true surname unknown but the forename was Colin. He had been seen last on Tuesday, June 8th in the evening at the park where the specialized hookers waited for their customers. Cocky was about 25 years, originally from London, blond, did not talk much and was rather small. He looked like a teenage boy, a big benefit in his line of work and had been using heroin for a very long time.

No one remembered what his latest client looked like, assuming it was a client at all who caused his disappearance. Cocky was a regular at the park on a nearly daily basis and stayed in Billy´s house for shooting up. He was good natured and well-liked by the others and mainly lay around babbling nonsense when he was high but has never become aggressive before.

The second prostitute had disappeared two days later. His name was Richard Shaw and he was known as “Richie Rich“. He had a bulky body, numerous tattoos, long brown hair usually tied in a messy pony tail and spoke with a broad Welsh accent. He lived somewhere in a dingy room of a derelict guesthouse but nobody really knew anything about him.

Richard was also shooting up heroin and consumed a lot of ecstasy on top, a mixture which had rather devastating effects on him. He kept himself separated from the other rent boys. Nevertheless he was well tolerated by most of them even if he did not like talking to his peers. He was estimated to be about in his early thirties.

The third missing hooker, David O`Leary, had joined their ranks about ten months ago. He was very young, sweet 19 years, and had an alluring androgynous body and introduced himself as “Missy“. He was a cross-dresser and had dyed his shoulder long hair platinum blond. The police already knew him for prostitution and possession of drugs.

His parents had kicked him out because of his ongoing drug abuse two years ago and since then he had drifted around in some of the large cities until he finally got washed up on the shores of London. He was always swallowing pills and used heroine and didn´t care about the substance as long as he got high. He was a quiet and almost shy person and had been last seen in Billy´s drug den on the 15th of June where he had claimed a room with a still functional door in the topmost storey for himself. This weird sort of privacy was strangely well accepted by the other tenants. Everyone liked Missy and some were really sorry for him and secretly wanted to help but such attempts had always been, if very politely so, declined.

The missing boy was the final straw that led to four of the regularly working rent boys team up and come to Billy with their worries. Something uncanny was going on and even if there was no proof of their suspicions it was just so unlikely that three of the boys should disappear without a trace in such a short time span. None of the three had given any hint that they thought about quitting their line of work in the park or would be moving somewhere else. None had behaved differently from before and as far as it was known nothing special had happened to them.

The specialized rent boys were a hard-boiled bunch (as they obviously had to be) but they could not avoid getting a bit anxious about the disappearances. There seemed to be a disconcerting pattern because only their small community was affected, the much larger group of “normal“ male prostitutes was unimpaired which they quickly found out after asking around.

And that was the reason why Billy found himself visiting to his old ex-junkie now-detective acquaintance on June 18th offering him a case he really hoped Sherlock would not decline. Billy knew that Sherlock cared for the members of his Homeless Network in his own odd kind of way and was inclined to do so with other needy persons. Even if he would hiss like a cat and spit poison into the face of everyone who would be insolent and stupid enough to say that loud. The dealer was one of the very few persons who had experienced Sherlock Holmes as a wretched and severely strung-out derelict named “Shezza“ and Billy was sure that the supposed unfeeling and callous detective was very much able to empathize with the addicted hookers because of that.

After a lot of talking, asking and answering, or at least trying to answer, Sherlock´s load of questions, after making two more mugs of tea and munching some biscuits Billy found accidentally in the kitchen which looked a bit fishy but tasted OK, the detective came up with a plan what he would do in order to investigate. Sherlock needed Billy to inform the rent boys about it as well as gather information from some of Billy´s “tenants“ that squatted in his infamous drug den.

Sherlock would go undercover and pose as a homeless addict, a role which he was easily getting accustomed to because he had been one himself in his dubious past so there was not a lot of acting skills needed. He would show up as down-and-out “Shezza“ tonight in Billy´s house, sleep there on one of the ratty mattresses, do his (fake) drugs and make contact with the other regulars. They had to believe that Shezza was a highly addicted junkie and in such dire need of money that someone would propose he should try selling his body.

Of course, Shezza would be in no physical state to lure any normal clients into having sex for money with him and it would undoubtedly amount in the recommendation to join the specialized rent boys. Their clients did not give so much for the outer appearance as they cared much more about the willingness of the hookers to suffer through pain and humiliation on a level that most other prostitutes would rather not.

Sherlock assumed that this would be the least suspicious way of joining the ranks of these rent boys, being a very self-contained group of about three dozen people with absolutely distrustful customers. He also needed the reference of some of the prostitutes as being trustworthy, at least in this line of work. It would be very unfortunate if the suspicion would arise that Shezza was working for the police or something like that. The potential abductor/murderer had to be absolutely clueless concerning Shezza´s real intentions. Always assuming the culprit was a client of the hookers.

Sherlock had given Billy several pound notes to make the junkies and hookers he chose to be reliable enough to comply with covering Shezza´s backstory as well as acquiring a certain amount of 7% cocaine solution ampules, the contents of which Billy would exchange for saline, as well as purchasing all the paraphernalia a drug addicted Shezza would need.

Sherlock also texted the main contacts of his Homeless Network he would become “Shezza“ for the next time. He also gave out word that he would reward any information concerning the missing rent boys.

Sherlock´s current bedraggled state came in quite handy now as he obviously also had to look like a junkie. After Billy left in the late afternoon, he glanced into the mirror in his bathroom and coolly assessed his appearance. Greasy hair, face unwashed and scruffy, bags under his bloodshot eyes due to lack of sleep. Hollow cheeks, that looked appropriate, too.

 _How long have I not eaten?_ _Well unimportant now! Gotta get going._

He fetched one of the syringes used for taking blood samples (he sometimes needed fresh blood for his experiments and used his own) and began to fake track marks in the crooks of his elbows. The faded scars of his past addiction were still visible there, even if his veins thankfully had recovered from the desperate collapsed state they had been in when Sherlock had hit the very bottom of his life.

He mixed red and black colourant which was safe for usage on humans and saline and penetrated the skin above the veins in his elbows numerous times so that he would sport vividly tinted injection marks. He also rubbed and scratched at his skin to create the illusion of old and infected punctures.

When Sherlock was satisfied with looking fucked up enough he only had to change into his old junkie clothes which he had kept as a remainder to never sink so low again. He donned the tattered jeans, the worn-out trainers close to falling apart and a battered t-shirt. A holey and frayed hoodie completed his get-up. The clothes still fit him, always having been too big for his malnourished body in his drug-addicted past, now they were just a bit loose. At the moment they were clean but would quickly become dirty again to convince anyone that the owner was living rough. Still, the person that looked out at Sherlock from his bathroom mirror appeared down-and-out enough to pass off as a destitute junkie.

The only thing now left to do for Sherlock was to hit the streets. Finally he was going to have some long missed _fun_!


	4. SOLDIER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags suicidal ideation and drug use apply to this chapter.

I battle with depression but the question still remains

Is it post-traumatic stressing or am I suppressing rage?

And my doctor tries to tell me that I´m going through a phase

Yeah, it´s not a fucking phase, I just wanna feel okay, okay?

Yeah, I struggle with this bullshit every day

And it´s probably `cause my demons simultaineously rage

It obliterates me, disintegrates me, annihilates me

`cause I´m about to break down, searching for a way out

Popular Monster, Falling in Reverse

Dr. John Hamish Watson, recently returned invalided home from his service in Afghanistan with the RAMC, had enough. Enough of the pain in his left shoulder -where he got shot, enough of the pain and the limp in his leg, enough of his nights full of terrorizing bad dreams and enough of his days full of panic attacks due to his PTSD.

He hated his miserable dingy tiny bedsit but could not afford a nicer place in London on his meagre army pension. He hated having no job and being unable to find work as a doctor because of the intermittent tremor in his left hand. He hated his boring, uneventful life and he hated himself because he was a pathetic wreck, physically and mentally. He hated knowing that he would not get better in the near future despite what Ella, his therapist, kept saying to him.

So John decided once again to drag himself outside for an afternoon to walk around his neighbourhood and got so lost in his painful and horrible thoughts that he found himself having wandered off to a more unsavoury part of London and facing a seedy pub.

When he realized his damnable hurting leg John decided to step inside, ordered a beer he did not intend to drink but sat down on a rickety chair at a scratched table with a suspiciously greasy surface.

The SIG Sauer, which he had brought back from the war in Afghanistan, quite illegally though, comforted him with its reassuring pressure against the small of his back where it was tugged safely into the waistband of his jeans and concealed by his jacket. He never went out without the gun otherwise he would drown in the feeling of a limb missing.

John shoved the glass of beer from one side to the other, to and fro, from left to right, backwards and forwards. His mind was a throbbing bubble and he was simply utterly fed up with his pointless rotten life.

His jaw set in a tense line. “So. That´s it, now“, he muttered to himself.

John got up and started walking along the grimy corridor towards where the toilets in the back of the pub were located. He passed them and instead slipped through the rear door which led him into a small backyard, full of bins and junk. He walked on and left it through a small gate, moving on into a damp and dirt-littered back-alley. It was only wide enough for one car, lined with the moulded brick walled backs of more or less run down houses and it was completely deserted.

John crossed to the other side and hunched down on the narrow kerb opposite the pub´s backyard with his back against a dry spot on a crumbling brick wall.

John sighed. He tugged the SIG out of his back, looked lovingly at it, took the muzzle into his mouth and laid his finger gently on the trigger. He closed his eyes and his mind went blank.

“If you want to ensure that this works properly you should adjust the gun´s angle a bit more upwards“, stated a deep baritone voice matter-of-factly and seemingly out of nowhere.

John jumped at the sudden sound coming from somewhere in front of him and he violently jerked the gun out of his mouth trying hard not to accidentally pull the trigger. Swallowing a large amount of saliva while coughing simultaneously, John tried to locate the source of the voice which had so arrogantly given this weird advice.

_Now who the fuck is that? And where is the bugger?_

John had not noticed anyone coming into the back-alley, but since he had been quite focused on his suicidal thoughts and the bitter taste of metal in his mouth, there was of course no way to say what had happened around him in the meantime.

_How long have I sucked at my gun? Five, ten, fifteen minutes?_

John´s heart was beating furiously fast while he took quick glances around his position, the instincts of the soldier kicking in with full force. Finally something dangerous was going on.

_Fuck, yeah!_

He discovered a tall and slender figure leaning casually in the shadowy entrance of the building adjacent to the backyard of the pub through which John had come earlier.

John stood up, keeping his back to the wall to cover him, took his gun in both hands and placed it carefully in front of him, the muzzle deliberately facing to the ground but holding it in a way so that it could be instantly pointed towards the _stupid wanker_ who had interfered with his suicide.

“Get out of the shadow and show yourself!“, John ordered. He was breathing heavily but his hands were perfectly steady.

A man slowly ambled out of the gloomy entrance, stalked down the few steps and stopped at a short distance in front of John. The stranger was very tall, very thin and was clad in very dirty clothes. He wore ragged jeans and a far too big and holey sweater. The hood was pulled up onto his head but some black unwashed curls were sticking out and surrounded his scruffy face. He looked like a walking scarecrow.

The stranger folded his arms in front of his lean body, cocking his head slightly sideways in a quizzical fashion. He raised an eyebrow and asked lazily: “Do you want me to put my hands up?“, seeming totally unafraid of John holding a gun at all.

The kind of bored expression changed into a condescending frown while he watched John under half-lidded eyes now being curious. It reminded John of a cat ogling a mouse. The glare also made it quite clear who was supposed to be the cat in this scenario. John did not like feeling like the mouse at all.

The stranger´s facial expression made John angry: “You do know that it´s extremely stupid to upset a man with a gun in his mouth? I could have shot myself!“

If looks could kill the ragged man would have dropped dead at the moment.

But the stranger only grinned opening his eyes a bit more which were of a startling pale blue grey colour and stated amusedly: “Well, I thought that was what you were up to, giving your illegal army weapon a blow-job like this.“

John gasped and ignored that the scarecrow had recognized his weapon for what it was and also tried not to think about the most beautifully coloured eyes he had ever seen. The ex-soldier settled on shooting back sourly.

“Yeah, but on purpose, not accidentally because some annoying prick startled me into it.“

The bloke laughed flat out and his deep rumbling laughter was as beautiful as his stunning eyes and John also tried not to think about that as well. The filthy man raised his left arm slowly as to not make a threatening move to the armed guy in front of him and gingerly pushed back his hood to reveal a wild mop of greasy black curls. The frayed cuff of his sweater slid down towards his elbow revealing several dark red spots running along the veins on his forearm.

_Oh no! A fucking junkie! Of all the people I could have possibly met here it has to be a wretched smackhead. A really beautiful smackhead. If one could remove all the dirt from his face. Lovely cheekbones as well…_

John was always wary in the company of drug addicts - and judging by the state of the injection marks on the arm it was quite clear that he man was heavily shooting up - because their behaviour was so erratic and unpredictable. They could be sobbing first and then attack you within seconds due to the damned mood swings the narcotics induced in their wracked brains _._

“The result would not have been any different so I don´t see why that could possibly bother you“, the junkie replied drily and rolled his eyes as if John was an uncomprehending moron.

John was forced to realize just now that his complaining about _accidentally_ killing himself rather than _purposefully_ was quite ridiculous so he quickly decided to question the other one instead.

 _Why do I feel the need to defend myself and my suicide attempt suddenly?_ _This is just a dirty worthless junkie_. _He is also literally dirty_ , _definitely hasn´t washed in a couple of days or even managed to change his clothes._ _Living on the streets can really ruin your outer appearance...but he still has a beautiful face, even with the bloodshot eyes…_

John glared at the addict: “What the hell were you doing here? Lingering in the shadows waiting for some poor drunk you could mug to get money for the next hit?“

The junkie idly scratched his head, making an even greater mess of his already tangled stringy curls. He kept his position looking directly at John, swaying subtly on the spot, a light tremble showing in his right hand that he let hang loosely down at his side. The gaze in his slightly bloodshot eyes became glazed and unfocused.

“Nope. You were intruding. This is my place for shooting up. Besides, I prefer to pickpocket.“

A broad lopsided grin lightened up his pale angular face with the sharply protruding cheekbones. It gave him a quite endearing expression though.

 _What an arrogant smug little shit_. _But his bird´s nest of hair is quite adorable and this boyish grin…such a perfect cupid´s bow…now where did that thought come from?_ _Why do I think of his face all the time?_ _Again and again?_

John, being a doctor and accustomed to the symptoms of withdrawal since he had met several soldiers with a drug habit due to prolonged stress while in service, realized that the other man was coming down from his high.

_He´s just an annoying druggie, not aggressive. Already dazed and trembling due to withdrawal. Pity actually. What a waste._

“Oh, soooo sorry having delayed your further self-destruction.“ John added acrimoniously in a mock-apologizing tone.

_My turn for raising eyebrows quizzically now. What do you make of that, smartarse?_

“Says the suicidal one that put a gun in his mouth“, came the snarky reply, followed by a disdainful sneer. “Just remember to adjust the angle next time you give it a try and do it properly.“

John felt his temper rising up another notch again.

_This fucking junkie is lecturing me on how to correctly blow my brains out? Not really!_

“I am a doctor and know _bloody_ well how to blow my brains out properly!“ John exclaimed loudly.

The junkie was still not impressed. He ogled John haughtily and hissed a caustic remark: “Then maybe you´re just a terribly untalented doctor.“

_I can´t believe it. He actually insults me while I´m holding a gun. He is a total maniac without any sense for self-preservation._

John had to fight his impulse to aim his gun at the sodding bastard and possibly shoot him right between the eyes out of sheer annoyance.

“Have the drugs already dissolved _your_ brain to pulp to provoke an armed man? I could shoot you right now. Do you have a death wish?“ John was aiming the gun at him finally. Menacing him. Just to make a point.

_I´ll show you untalented! You arse!_

The addict had the audacity to only smirk at John, cocking his head again.

 _It makes his face quite youthful and endearing to be honest_ … _What am I thinking about?_

John was still infuriated: “Do you want me to finish you? I have killed people before, you know!“

Not that John really intended to kill someone other than himself at the moment but he wanted to frighten the bugger enough to see him squirm. He wanted to be in control of the situation and not feel like being toyed with.

_Not by a bloody useless smackhead. No way!_

Raising an eyebrow and rolling his eyes exasperatedly (must be a trademark expression) and still not flinching, also by no means frightened, the junkie answered thoughtfully: “I´d rather prefer dying in a wave of rapture and bliss due to overdosing myself.“ He smiled blissfully.

Then he took two steps forward until he stood directly in front of John´s gun that pointed to his chest now. The taller man looked down towards John with a haughty expression obtaining eye contact.

“You don´t scare me!“

“You´re definitely insane!“ John huffed in exasperation but without lowering his gun.

The junkie replied smoothly with a shrewd look in his eyes. A manic grin formed on his face, wrinkling his cheeks.

“I know you´re not a man who will shoot an innocent and utterly harmless drug addict.“

“You definitely aren´t either innocent or harmless. Rather sly and dangerous and clearly insane. And you know nothing about me.“ John´s patience was running very thin.

Both men scowled at each other and the air between them seemed to bristle with electricity. The situation threatened to become a brawl but instead John´s mouth started to twitch a tiny bit. The junkie´s mouth did so as well. The acrimonious look in the pale blue grey eyes faded and gave way to another almost mischievous smirk.

John couldn´t contain himself any longer and started laughing out loud, as did the junkie. The latter had a beautiful deep resonating laughter. Both men developed a severe fit of laughter as each of them became aware that this situation which had been ridiculous right from the beginning had reached a level of utter hilariousness.

When the ongoing laughter finally ebbed off to an occasional giggle and snigger, John who was still standing with his back against the rotting brick wall began to slide slowly down as if his legs were unable to support his weight any longer and sat down on the nearby kerb. Finally he put the gun back into his waistband to rest it against the small of his back.

The addict took a cautious step forward, turned around and slumped down sluggishly at John´s left side. He crossed his long legs. They sat there in amicable silence leaning their backs against the brick wall still catching their breath.

John saw bony knees pushing through the ripped fabric of the tattered jeans. Despite the pityful state of the junkie´s clothes, his unkempt hair, dirty face and frankly appalling smell the man emanated an air of grace and superiority, a stunning contradiction which John struggled to wrap his mind around but utterly failed.

_He looks like shite but sounds posh as hell. Seems to be quite intelligent, too. How did he end up like that?_

John hadn´t felt so alive for a long time. Hadn´t been feeling anything but the utter lack of willing to carry on with such a boring and deprived life. And now, as he had finally decided to shoot himself he had been interrupted by this peculiar, witty and absolutely insufferable smartarse junkie.

He had laughed so hard that his stomach hurt, he had been angry so much he wanted to shoot someone else instead, had been completely dumbfounded and was now utterly curious about what would happen next while sitting beside _him_. John suddenly had the beautiful and at the same time terrifying feeling that his life was coming back to him.

The junkie sighed and mused in his surprisingly sensual baritone voice: “Dammit. I wasn´t even aware there is such a thing as a laughter-induced high.“ He turned his head to look at John, grinning all over his dirt streaked face.

“I really can´t remember the last time I fucking laughed at all!“

The ex-soldier was surprised as he realized at this moment that he sort of liked this weirdo. Very much indeed. John had no idea why but something had just _clicked_ between himself and them. He wanted to befriend the other man and that was a revelation in itself since John did not make friends after knowing a person for only ten minutes.

Especially not if the person in question was a homeless drug addict. Yet, there was something that drew John´s personality irrisistibly towards the quirky junkie, like a moth to the flame.

_Hopefully I don´t get burned to ashes. Maybe I am the true weirdo in this, what? Relationship? Situation - I´m so fucked up._

John was still panting slightly as he held out his hand towards the bloke sitting next to him. “Hi. I´m John.“

The junkie hesitated a short moment before shaking John´s hand gripping it firmly.

“Hi. I´m“, he hesitated slightly, “Shezza.“

“That can´t be your name at all.“ John huffed.

Shezza replied aloof: “It´s who I am right now.“

“Oh really? The _harmless_ and _innocent_ drug addict. I don´t believe that for a second. So who are you when you´re not Shezza the Junkie?“

“Someone else.“

John frowned: “Talking to you can be quite tedious, you know. Do you often get punched in the face by frustrated people?“

Shezza chuckled: “Some have actually tried. Unsuccessfully, I must add.“

“Now here´s a real challenge. I suppose I can manage.“ John smiled back, his eyes twinkling with mischief. Shezza sulked.

_How can he possibly pout like a four year old child?_

After a moment of silent consideration Shezza said: “By the way, you were wrong. I do know a lot about you.“

“Like what?“

John was very curious. He had already noticed that this Shezza was quite lucid and not at all suffering from withdrawal.

 _When did he loose the trembling hand and the dazed look?_ _His movements have become very controlled at some point of our conversation and his piercingly intelligent eyes have lost every bit of befuddlement they have shown before. Suspicious. Dangerous indeed._

While Shezza summed up in rapid-fire mode, John wondered where the hell this man got his oxygen from since he was definitely not taking a pause. For Shezza, breathing seemed to be boring. So he simply refused to.

“Like you are an ex-army doctor, recently returned from Afghanistan or Iraq, which one is it? You suffer from PTSD and are quite used to guns and violence. You´re suicidal because your life is empty and pointless but you have not yet fallen over the edge because you had the safety switch on the whole time since you put it in your mouth and never switched it off. You have strong morals but are easily angered otherwise you would not have tried to only intimidate me with a loaded gun. Your shoulder pains you where you got shot which was the reason why you´re back in London again, now living in a small flat you despise but you can´t afford another place since you can´t find a job as a doctor because of the tremor in your hand. Which has subcided as soon as you felt being in a dangerous situation. So you´re an addict yourself, craving being high on adrenaline!“

Well, that came like a punch in the gut. John took some steadying deep breaths. Shezza´s gaze became a bit anxious or wary even, not sure knowing how John would react. He visibly brazed himself for getting rejected.

“That was…“

Shezza´s body went rigid in anticipation.

“…amazing. How on earth could you possibly know all this?“

John involuntarily grabbed at his injured shoulder. The wound had healed some time ago but today the pain had been excruciatingly intense again. Shezza got a strange look in his eyes and inhaled, surprised.

“I am a very skilled observer.“ Shezza stated drily but also very satisfied with himself.

“You knew all the time that the weapon was safe?“ John was speechless when the realization filtered into his stunned brain.

“Of course. I would never have deliberately upset you otherwise when you sucked your gun if it hadn´t been secure. I´m not stupid! But I was curious about your reaction.“ Shezza smirked very smugly this time. Again.

Utterly disbelieving that Shezza admitted this so easily, John scowled, “You _utter_ bastard“, but he had to grin nevertheless.

_Utter amazing bastard. Utter beautiful bastard…ah well!_

The complete non sequitur which followed threw John in a loop.

“By the way, do you want my hit? It will definitely ease the pain in your injured shoulder and make you feel better.“

The junkie rummaged in the pocket of his ragged sweater and produced a capped one-way syringe with a clear liquid in it. He held it out towards John. The label on it read 7% Cocaine Solution.

The ex-soldier nearly choked.

_He can´t be serious. Why would he give me his expensive stuff if he´s clearly destitute? This has to be a joke. Or a test. Whatever…_

“No one in their right mind would inject some dubious liquid in a more dubious syringe offered by a most dubious addict! You´re barking mad to propose anything like that.“ John took a deep breath to calm himself. “But, ah, thank you, anyway, for, um, the offer - I guess?“ he added awkwardly.

“Mind if I use it now, then?“ Shezza asked casually.

John sniffed, scandalized and angry. “In fact I do. Yes! Why are doing this to yourself? You are quite intelligent, you know that´s self-destruction.“

_What a waste of such a brilliant mind!_

“How long have you been using?“

“I quit a long time ago.“

John groaned. “Liar. I saw the fresh marks on your forearm as well as the older scar tissue. I´m a doctor, remember. I´m not stupid either!“

“Good. So you are able not only to see but to observe as well.“

Shezza was pleased. John snorted, annoyed. He felt like a circus animal that had performed a trick without even knowing about it.

“Oh, calm down. Obviously I have been an addict once, you noted the old scar tissue. But I am not _now_.“

Shezza looked John straight in the eyes to make his point perfectly clear and to see if John still doubted him.

The doctor pointedly waved his fingers to Shezza´s forearm: „Well, what about all the new track marks? What do you shoot up _now_?“

He quickly grabbed Shezza´s hand firmly while shoving up the frayed sleeve gesturing towards the ugly blue and red spots there.

“Saline.“ Shezza answered curtly, his mouth a thin line.

 _Saline, my arse!_ _He´s totally off the rocker if he thinks that I would believe that._ _There is no way of having an earnest conversation with this insufferable prat._

“Saline? Really! You´re kidding. Nobody injects saline with a cocaine ampule in the syringe. If you don´t want to tell me the truth it´s fine, but don´t lie to me. I can´t stand liars.“

John was adamant. Trust issues, like his therapist was constantly telling him. He could not trust Shezza if he was a notorious liar.

_Wait, damn! First I want to befriend him and now I already want to trust him as well? What is it about the sodding bugger that makes me feel like that?_

“I know something else about you“, Shezza eyed John sideways, “You don´t have friends!“

“Why is that?“ John felt a sharp hot stab in his heart because the junkie was right again.

“Because you still tolerate me. Nobody suffers me for such a long time and is still trying to get to know me better. Most people would have told me to just piss off.“ he said with an almost shy smile that suited his perfectly shaped mouth very well.

John sighed, feeling defeated. “I´m not most people but I´m afraid I´ll be starting to regret trying very soon.“

“Don´t complain later that I didn´t warn you.“

Shezza got suddenly distracted by something farther down the alley and craned his head. He listened intently and a strained expression flitted over his face before it got placid again.

“Well, that was…um…good.“ Shezza rose nimbly to his feet and John did the same, alas much more stiffly. “Gotta go now.“

Both men looked a bit awkward at each other but then Shezza turned around and stumbled over the low kerb. He had to steady himself with one hand at the brick wall behind John while his other hand accidentally shoved against John´s chest.

“Oops, sorry. Bit shaky.“ He started to walk on unsteady legs down the alley.

“Hey. Wait!“ John called behind him.

“What?“

“Will I meet you again?“ John felt really stupid asking this but would never have forgiven himself if he hadn´t tried.

“Yep. See ya.“ Without turning around Shezza disappeared into another side alley, leaving behind a frustrated John who remained standing frozen on the spot for solid five minutes.

_We don´t know our names and we don´t know where we live. How the hell are we to meet again?_

After John came out of his stupor he began to limp back home but realized quickly that his leg hurt too much for such a long walk. He decided to take the bus, cabs were just too expensive and found the nearest bus station where he delightedly sat down and waited. It was only then that John noticed his wallet was missing.

He felt utterly betrayed.

_Oh bugger! I´m such an idiot! And he even told me he prefers pick-pocketing to mugging. There goes my identity card and 30 quid. Wait…Jesus! He also nicked my phone! I should never have let a junkie come near me, let alone starting to trust one. I´m such a dumbass!_

At least one thing worked out for John. Shezza had left him his keys and he found some small change in the pocket of his jeans that was enough for the bus ticket.

After some tedious switching of bus lines John finally arrived near the house with his bedsit and limped the rest of his way home. He was in pain, he was angry, miserable, felt maliciously fooled and regretted dearly not having shot himself earlier.

A young woman who was obviously homeless was loitering near the entrance to John´s building. She looked at the doctor and called out to him: “Hey, you John Watson?“ As John flinched at hearing his name she tossed a bound plastic bag at him, “Shezza sent this“, and flitted away quickly, not bothering if he would catch it.

The bag fell down at John´s feet and he eyed it suspiciously for a while, unsure what to do with it. Nevertheless he picked it up, opened it and to his utter surprise found his wallet and phone inside. He was even more surprised that all of his money was still there and nothing else was missing. Someone obviously went through the contacts of his phone.

_Oh! That´s really weird. Seems he knows where I live now…_


	5. INVESTIGATION

Spiraling inside my own disguise, This is my design

But we´re not here together

Mirror mirror, tell me who you see, Am I you or me?

I can never remember

Disguise, Motionless In White

Sherlock had been working on his case for three days. He made it to Billy´s drug den on the early evening of June 18th and got himself acquainted with the other residents. He made subtle inquiries about the missing rent boys and Billy showed him the room where Missy had stayed. Sadly, there were no cues to be found in his belongings or in the statements of the resident junkies that could help enlightening the circumstances of Missy´s disappearance any further.

Sherlock pocketed some of the fake cocaine syringes Billy had arranged for him and while preparing his arm for shooting up in the “common room“ he made sure that his track marks could be seen clearly to ensure that the others believed he was a real junkie. The druggies were obviously a bit wary when someone new came to the house but Sherlock´s well-practised ease with using his drug paraphernalia and handling the syringe while injecting assuaged them quickly. Just because Sherlock had not used in a long time did not mean that he had forgotten how to do it. It was all muscle memory, like riding a bicycle, you don´t unlearn it once you can.

The place where the “specialized“ rent boys waited for their customers had changed since the time when Sherlock had made his one and only attempt at earning money to sustain his cocaine habit this way. Nowadays they chose to linger around in a small public park which was protected by an old wrought-iron fence and with only one gate for an entrance. There was a tiny but well-kept lawn, surrounded by flower beds and shrubs.

On the inside the fence was well covered with fully grown bushes and smaller trees and no one out on the street could see what happened in the park. In one corner there was a small grove of several birch trees. Four iron benches provided some space for sitting down and watching the neat little fountain in the middle of the grass. There were also four lamp posts besides the benches, one with a broken bulb, yet the remaining three provided enough light for scrutinizing the luscious goods that were on display there once the sun set. But the best feature of the garden was the complete lack of any CCTV cameras which could peek into it so that nobody had to be afraid of being watched.

Despite the fact that there was a lot of shady business going on in the little park, it was a clean and friendly place. However, all the locals knew that as soon as sunset started, one better left the park to the hookers which would undoubtedly find their way into it and would hang around the benches, waiting.

Sherlock spent three evenings and nights in a row with the hookers in the park, talking to them, inquiring and trying to gather information about the clients that went to Cocky, Richie and Missy regularly. He also made as many photos as he could with his mobile of the men that came to the park looking for company. The prostitutes accepted Sherlock´s presence because they knew he was no competition to their business but instead tried to help their small community. Most people despised the streetwalkers and looked down on them whereas the detective just took them as they were without being judgemental. They agreed to give Sherlock a sign if they thought a client was acting suspiciously in any way and then Sherlock would follow them to see what the client was up to.

A somehow funny but otherwise annoying coincidence was that at the very beginning of Sherlock´s investigation in the park he really did become a, even completely unwilling, competitor to the rent boys. It turned out that “Shezza“ was still looking so alluring that he had to turn down several more than sexually eager men although he was deliberately unwashed, terribly scruffy and was clad more ragged and filthier then his contenders. Sherlock decided to retreat to the birch grove and hide mostly from plain view if a customer would arrive at the benches, for the sake of ongoing peace amongst the boys and not to hinder his case furthermore.

For all his efforts, up until the early morning of June 21th nothing special happened and Sherlock had found no lead whatsoever concerning the missing boys. He was disgruntled by this fact despite knowing very well that he had to be patient and was actually looking for the needle in the hay stack trying to catch the abductor red-handed. The only new information he had gathered was that Missy had tried to quit using drugs and had gotten some treatment if one could believe what a junkie friend of him at Billy´s had told Sherlock.

Sherlock had retreated to his ratty mattress in a corner of the den´s main room in the early morning hours and had fallen into a deep sleep bordering on unconsciousness due to several days lack of selfsame and after another long night at the park. Sherlock had trailed two more suspects (again) that turned out to be simple normal clients (again), normal meaning that they only intended to have some leisurely spanking and playful whipping of the prostitutes they hired, but proved harmless otherwise (again).

Therefore it took the detective some time to register his mobile phone vibrating in the back pocket of his torn jeans. He fumbled for it, trying hard to focus his bleary eyes on the time (about eight in the morning) and then the screen and recognized Detective Inspector Lestrade´s number.

“What is it?“ he croaked, his voice hoarse and slurry from sleep.

“I´ve got a corpse for you“, the DI answered rather cheerfully and added sounding concerned about the detective´s voice, “Are you O.K., Sherlock?“

“Yes, yes, I´m fine. You just woke me up“ Sherlock grumbled and coughed drily.

“You slept? At this time? What´s wrong with you?“

“Don´t be stupid, Lestrade! Just tell me about the corpse, if that wouldn´t be too much of a bother!“

The DI huffed “O.K. Young male body, dead for several days, found this morning in the cellar of a vacant house. Looks like an overdosed smackhead but the body has been viciously mutilated before and after death and the circumstances are fishy. It´s right on your street. Will you come?“

Sherlock suddenly got the strong premonition that he would finally find one of the missing hookers. Wide awake now he saw the address the DI sent him which was luckily very near to Baker Street.

He demanded “I´ll be there in an hour, I have to finish something on my current case first…No, I´m not going to tell you what it is. Don´t let Anderson mess around too much. That moron is likely to destroy any useful evidence.“ He abruptly rang off.

Sherlock ordered a cab to a street corner nearby, there was no use in trying to hail one directly, no driver in his right mind would stop for him at the moment. He waved several pound notes at the cabbie who ogled him warily as he approached the car before letting Sherlock get in.

The detective wanted to go back to his flat at Baker Street to clean himself up. Sherlock would not mind showing up dirty and ragged as he currently was at the crime scene, it was just his transport not his mind that was in a neglected state. Yet, something told him that Lestrade would nag him endlessly about what kind of case required that he looked like a junkie (after gleefully filming him with his mobile first). Also, the D.I. would definitely become suspicious if Sherlock´s claiming _It´s for a case!_ would not rather be lying and if he had not just got on the sauce again.

Sherlock had no intention to explain the reason for his new (fake) track marks and despised having to watch the sneering faces of Donovan and Anderson. They would gloat at his wretched exterior, _I knew he would not manage to stay clean, can we finally boot him out now?_ and he would rather die than give these scumbags that sort of satisfaction, even short-lived as it would be.

58 minutes later an immaculately groomed and dressed Sherlock Holmes arrived at the crime scene. He ducked under the yellow tape and stalked with long bouncing strides around the corner of the house passing by some unfamiliar looking police officers which gaped open-mouthed at his gloriously swirling Belstaff coat. Sherlock really loved such dramatic entrances and rejoiced wholly in being himself again after days of impersonating sleazy Shezza. He was scanning the surroundings and nearly ran into a sullen looking Sergeant Donovan who was just walking out of the basement stairs.

“Oi, watch out freak! You made us all wait. Get on with it and then get lost!“ Sally barked at Sherlock as hostile towards him as ever and giving him a baleful look. She had hated him since their very first meeting when she had had to arrest a real junkie-Sherlock.

“Oh, hello Miss Donovan, so nice to see you again.“

Sherlock adopted a sickly sweet voice and then he sniffed at her.

“Does your vaginal yeast infection bother you very much? Maybe you should try a salve which is more effective and less smelly?“ He gave her his most insincere friendly smile and left her behind seething.

Grinning, Sherlock entered the cellar, walked along a narrow corridor into a room brightly lit by several spotlights the police had installed. D.I. Greg Lestrade stopped talking to Anderson from forensics, shooting him an annoyed look.

“Finally, Sherlock. We couldn´t wait for you an hour, so we started collecting the evidence. The body is still unmoved. Just go ahead and do your thing.“ The D.I. made an invitational gesture with his hand.

Anderson who had glared at Sherlock but thankfully kept his mouth shut, turned on the spot and left the cellar without further acknowledging the consulting detective´s existence.

_Great! I don´t have to deal with the moron then. He´s been shagging Donovan again regarding state of his jeans and the way he walks. Hopefully she infected him before she applied the salve._

Sherlock smiled shortly and Lestrade, who mistook the gesture being meant for him (instead of gloating at the image of a groin-scratching Anderson), looked stupefied. Sherlock hummed in consent, put on the offered latex gloves and started to examine the body while he listened to the explanations the D.I. offered concerning how the corpse had been discovered.

“O.K. So. We have a male body, age 19, identified by fingerprints as David O´Leary, several arrests for public indecency and drug possession, worked as a prostitute, long term heroin addict. Found by a vagrant who wanted to sleep here, he called the police and disappeared afterwards. Body shows signs of abuse and mutilation with cigarette burns, a blunt knife and a razor. Fresh track marks from heroin injection. Syringe with his fingerprints on the ground near him. Death caused by asphyxiation most likely due to overdosing. The question is was he murdered or did he overdose? Was he raped and mutilated or did he consent to this treatment in his line of work?“

The D.I. took some deep breaths after his long speech and watched Sherlock apprehensively as he leant over the body, prodded it here and there, sniffed at it, lifted the arms to look at the injection marks with his beloved magnifier and overall behaved as the world´s only consulting detective would always behave at a crime scene. Which meant he took every bloody chance to show off his genius.

“So, what do you think, Mr. Mind Palace?“ the D.I. asked impatiently after a few minutes.

Sherlock snorted at the ridiculous moniker but rattled off his deductions anyway. That´s what he was here for by all means.

“The newly acquired injuries were non-consensual, can´t you see how the borders of the welts and gashes are uneven? He tried to get away but was restrained at his wrists and ankles, with cheap plastic rope, which is not used for bondage. He died somewhere else. Made to look like a “work accident“ and like the frantic hooker crawled in here to shoot up. Even if his line of work included consenting to harsher BDSM methods judging by the older scars on his body this is something else. It looks more like a real punishment and execution scenario not some sexual kink gone too far. The heroin was injected by another person altogether because the angle of the puncture channel is wrong, you can´t do this yourself. So, someone punished this man knowing very well that it would look like a hard sex accident and on top faked a heroin overdose to make sure everyone would believe it was an accidental death. Which it was not. Before death he was tortured and deliberately killed by too much heroin. And even after his death the murderer was still angry enough to vent his wrath on the body. So something personal. Obviously!“

As expected the D.I. stared dumbfounded at Sherlock´s brilliant rapid-fire deductions. At least that was what Sherlock thought, whereas in fact the DI was wondering where in hell Sherlock got so much BDSM knowledge from.

_Of course he is Sherlock, the man who knows the strangest things but fails to remember that England has a queen, but, well, better not ruminate any further down that specific alley…maybe he experimented on a body in the morgue? Yes, that´s it. Probably. Has to be! For God´s sake!_

Sherlock of course had recognized Missy instantly from the photo of him he had memorized, but acted like he did not know exactly who lay there. Sherlock considered that it would make no difference to the Yard´s investigation of the murder (which it obviously was) if the police knew what kind of case he was currently on.

He would rather stay undercover because no one of the rent boy scene would talk to the police anyway and their stumbling around would only hinder his own investigations and make the boys even more nervous. Also the culprit could be chased away by seeing too many coppers at the park.

“Text me if you have the details from the postmortem. I´ve got work to attend to.“ Sherlock demanded bluntly and left without bidding farewell to the still staring D.I.

Not that Lestrade wasn´t used to this special trait of Sherlock´s utter lack of social niceties but still the bloody git never failed to stun the hell out of him.

The detective took a cab back to Baker Street and instantly changed into his junkie clothes. He gave his clean black curls a grumpy glare in the mirror and massaged some cooking oil (a leftover from an experiment) into them to regain the greasy look. After that he walked to Billy´s house and flopped down on his lumpy mattress, waiting for the right time to visit the park again. He had to do some serious thinking.

He told no one that Missy was dead. No need to make everyone even more anxious. The other missing hookers were likely dead as well.

_Finally a serial killer!_


	6. JUNKIE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags suicidal ideation and drug use apply to this chapter

Tell me I was never good enough

Remind me of the demons that I´ve been running from

Tell me who the hell you thought I was

Or just blame it on the person, the person I´ve become

Lately I don´t give a fuck ´cause I can´t be myself when I´m with anyone

Maybe, I´m already gone, I´ll never be the same

It hit me like a hurricane, it hit me like a tidal wave

And I don´t know why I drown myself in everything they say

Hurricane, I Prevail

In the early evening of June 21th Sherlock lingered in the park again. He had not told the rent boys that one of their companions had been found dead. Sooner or later the police would probably interrogate them, at least try to, because Sherlock knew they would follow their non-spoken codex and would not talk to the police at all. Also, he was sure that none of them would blurt out the truth about who Shezza was and what he was doing here.

An early client made his way to the fountain, looking idly around at the displayed merchandise. His eyes settled on Hugh, a tall, dark-haired bloke, who was into crystal meth but had managed to keep himself halfway handsome despite his addiction. Something about the customer made Sherlock´s instincts twitch.

The detective retreated deeper into the shadows of the birches behind the bench and watched intensely as the suspiciously acting man kept chatting Hugh up. They quickly got an understanding concerning the business and while the man perused his wallet for giving the hooker the demanded amount of advance cash Hugh shot a secretive wink at Sherlock.

_So, I was right. The man is dodgy in his behaviour, Hugh thinks the same._

Sherlock nodded back, brandished his mobile phone quickly at Hugh and raised an eyebrow. The hooker slightly nodded back, making sure that Sherlock was meant to follow them. The nod also confirmed Hugh would be sending an emergency call to the detective´s mobile if he felt threatened by his client. Just to be safe, Sherlock took several photos of the ominous man.

Sherlock trailed behind Hugh and his customer at a safe distance. He needn´t really worry about being discovered by the client whom Sherlock suspected of having something to do with the murders. The man was talking animatedly to Hugh and his concentration was fully on the hooker. Yet, something about his stance and demeanour was off, defying the look of a casual and ordinary man. This attitude could not fool one Sherlock Holmes.

In fact, his behaviour only confirmed Sherlock´s suspicion that the man secretly loathed the rent boy, it was all obvious in his body posture, at least to the keen eye of the consulting detective. It had nothing to do with the wish of dominating someone, of gaining superiority by forcing another human being to submit through violence, to debase and humiliate someone. If this were the fact than the man should be eager and excited to be pleasured by the special services that Hugh offered.

But the man was reluctant to brush against Hugh´s side while walking with him as if he felt to become defiled by the mere touch. So why should he buy time with a hooker if he definitely hated being in the company of one? More so since the special services offered were actually quite expensive.

Sherlock followed the pair and Hugh led them to a house a couple of yards away of which Sherlock knew that it was used by the rent boys for their activities. The house was absolutely nondescript on the outside and looked just like one of the older brick buildings in this rather seedy part of London. Nobody would suspect it being a transient hotel. Even the police did not know about it, as far as it was correct what the bunch of hookers had told Sherlock.

Inside it offered several halfway clean rooms with certain amenities that served for having pleasure. It had an old crone behind the main door (that was so cliché but could not be helped) who charged the rooms per hour. The main entrance to front road was disguised as a normal residential building with several of course fake names and door bells of people that supposedly owned a flat here.

The real business would be entered through the back door which was opening into a most of the time deserted narrow back alley. This was where Hugh went to reaching his hand up to find a concealed door bell, ringing it. Both men ambled into the building as the door opened from the inside.

Sherlock looked around and quickly found himself a place to hide without being seen. The place offered a perfect view of the hotel´s back door. He retreated into the deep shadow of a roofed entrance of yet another residential building which by the looks of its windows was apparently vacant.

The funny thing was that Sherlock who was the exact opposite of a patient person could endure waiting while surveilling someone pretty well. He sat down and reclined his back against the disused door and stretched out his long legs comfortably. The detective was quite happy to wear his homeless junkie outfit so he needn´t bother getting his clothes stained with the soot and grime of the old tiles he sat upon. In fact, it would only add up on his disguise. Thankfully he did not have his beloved Belstaff coat with him, otherwise he would have had to remain standing all the while.

Sherlock used the time waiting for the client to exit the house again to sort through all the case-related files stored in his mind palace. He planned on tracking the man afterwards to find out where he lived and to obtain a name for further investigations.

Sherlock also wondered for the umpteenth time what the connection between the missing and presumed dead hookers was. The mere fact that they were rent boys and offered or rather succumbed to the more violent sexual practices seemed a tad too obvious.

_If a murderer simply wanted to kill some hookers then why should he…Or she? No, unlikely a she, they serve male customers only…go to such lengths with all the torture he put his victim through? So much effort was made to make it look like a BDSM session gone awry and an accidental overdose later on, what for?_

The death of Missy had a flair of something personal around it, something the culprit wished his victim to suffer for. Not just the lust gained from torturing. And since the missing boys were all of different height, stature, hair colour or age the only connection between them was that they were all male drug-addicted prostitutes. It was all about _punishing_ these specific rent boys for something they had _done_ , not something that they _were_. Sherlock had no doubt that Richie and Cocky were both dead, too. Abused, mutilated and “accidentally overdosed“.

While Sherlock mulled over his mental files he saw a figure pushing open a small gate in the backyard of the seedy pub adjacent to his hiding place. He watched idly as a short man with dirty blonde hair crossed the alley. Sherlock noticed a trembling hand, a slight stagger and a limp.

_Good heavens! It´s early evening and the guy is already drunk. Alcoholic going to vomit... Oh! No._ _Not at all…_

The detective observed the man sitting down on the opposite kerb. He was already intrigued because he realized that the man was military, not drunk but injured in action which left him with a tremor in his hand and a limp in his leg. Sherlock watched with growing fascination as the seemingly ordinary bloke pulled a gun from behind his back, the trembling hand steady now as he took it into his mouth. Deductions flooded Sherlock´s mind in rapid succession.

_Oh! Ex-soldier invalided home from, where? Not alcoholic, interesting tremor in hand but intermittent when lacking adrenaline, amazing! Psychosomatic limp but shot in the shoulder, which one? Ah! Not ordinary, hides illegal army weapon, how did he manage to keep it? Get it through customs? Also suffering from PTSD, suicidal, wants to off himself now…_

_Fuck, NO!_

Sherlock jerked violently out of his deductions as the ex-soldier laid a finger on the trigger.

_Oh nononono!_

_He´s not going to blow my cover by killing himself and causing the police to be called. I did not linger around in this miserable place looking and smelling like shite with the rent boys for days to let some suicidal idiot ruin the first lead I got! I need to stop the moron, immediately!_

The detective decided to call out to the imbecilic bastard and distract him from pulling the trigger and to make him bugger off to kill himself at another time and in another place. Sherlock had to prevent the trouble his impending suicide would cause with his ongoing investigation. Someone would hear the shot, see the body, call the police and inevitably Lestrade´s team would show up.

Sherlock hoped that he could simply scare off the suicidal git but instead had to face a ferociously angry and quite dangerous ex-army man who demanded him to show himself while instantly pointing the illegal gun at him.

Even though Sherlock had observed very soon as he carefully came closer to the man that the safety switch was still enabled, he knew he had to convince the soldier that “Shezza“ was innocuous to make him shove off.

Which proved to be a non-accomplishable challenge since, Sherlock being Sherlock, he could not stop himself from showing off his deductive prowess as well as riling the man up a bit (or a bit more than a bit) to figure out how he would behave when annoyed. And oooh, how easily he got the ex-soldier to become angry… it was quite _fun_.

The detective lifted his arm to push back the hood of his ratty sweatshirt and deliberately let the sleeve slide down to show off his fake track marks. The soldier immediately recognized them and oddly relaxed a tiny bit.

_Not altogether unobservant, not repelled, still wary… fascinating… and he has nice deep blue eyes. What?_

Sherlock acted like the junkie he pretended to be, swayed, let his hands tremble and slurred his words still teasing the other verbally.

_I´m starting to enjoy this distraction… his reactions are utterly… non-ordinary. And his eyes are really beautiful. What is this colour called? Navy blue? Aquamarine? Ultramarine?_

Sherlock became ever more intrigued by the man who was also a doctor and with whom he fell into a laughing fit, a fact that was unheard of and something Sherlock would never admit to anyone. One had to imagine the great consulting detective Sherlock Holmes giggling like a child with a total stranger in a back alley during the investigation of a murder case and musing about his eye colour, _unthinkable_. He had a reputation to uphold, namely being a heartless cold bastard lacking any trace of sentiments. Goddamn!

_Thank God that here is no CCTV. Mycroft would tease me endlessly should he see me now. I´d never hear the end of it._

How could this army doctor make him laugh and engage in some sort of small talk banter? Small talk in itself was a detestable thing. Something he always failed trying.

_Horrible! He seems to like me, now this is perplexing, he really wants to befriend me, no, not me but “Shezza“ which is even more amazing. Who on earth wants to keep socializing with a filthy homeless junkie? Oh! The ex-soldier craves the danger and the excitement my unsavoury persona promises… intriguing! Also, his hair colour is… nice. But the jumper he wears is ugly._

There was something that drew Sherlock´s personality irresistibly towards the army doctor, like a moth to the flame. There was no way of resisting the urge to get to know… _John_. John who suffered his insufferable self so well and even admitted openly that he wanted to get to know Shezza better. Something like that, _someone_ like that, had never happened before. Even Sailor had not been that open towards him when they first met. The circumstances back then had also been less than stellar concerning building up trust. Or attraction.

_John is extraordinary and calls my deductions amazing. No one ever did that. I could get used to his praise and those lovely eyes… Why the fuck am I thinking about that? I don´t have sentiments!_

Sherlock was quite flabbergasted that John also genuinely cared about his well-being. The ex-doctor-soldier did not like his (supposed) drug habit at all because he thought it meant wasting Shezza´s life and his mental capacities. As if the life of this special junkie was already precious to John and meant something after knowing him for only about fifteen minutes.

The back door of the house Sherlock surveilled opened at this moment and he saw Hugh and his customer stepping into the back-alley. They waved shortly at each other, Hugh lingered in the doorway to light a cigarette whereas his client turned and started to walk down the alley.

Sherlock would have really liked to keep chatting with John,

_Since when am I chatting with people?_

he thought disdainfully but had to follow the man immediately. He pretended to stumble and let himself fall against John while his nimble fingers pick-pocketed the soldier quickly without him noticing the slightest. Sherlock loved how easily he got away with that and left a slightly shocked and speechless John in the back alley.

_Need to have his address and telephone number to keep in contact. Why not have a bit fun and practise my skill? I absolutely love this and I´m still excellent at it, Sailor would be so, so proud, well, never mind… always comes in handy. Where is Lestrade´s badge anyway, couldn´t find it last time, have to get me another one… must leave mental note to nick it again next time I meet… Graham? Gus? Gulliver? Giles? John´s eyes are so blue… ultramarine blue, yes, that´s it what it´s called!_

Sherlock followed Hugh´s customer easily but the man was walking quickly towards a much more frequented part of London, it would soon become more difficult to follow him and the passers-by would react suspiciously to Shezza roaming the posh shopping streets in his current state. He did not want to risk that the man noticed being tracked by him and decided to try a direct approach in order to gather more information as long as they still were in a street less busy.

The detective was very confident of his newly practised pick-pocketing skills and he followed a short cut which he knew would lead him directly in front of where the suspect was heading. After all Sherlock knew London like the back of his hand. The city he loved was his very own private playground.

Shezza, the seedy addict, lurched along the pavement. He muttered incoherently to himself and bumped heavily into his suspect who fell onto his bum and cussed like a sailor, glaring at the rotten creature that had made him fall. Shezza swayed and patted the man´s jacket in an attempt to brush off dirt and slurred.

“Sorry, sorry, mate, didn´t see ya, um, you give me some quid? No harm done, have some spare change? Need some. Give me some?“ He extended a begging hand towards him.

The man rose to his feet, glared at Shezza and hissed irately: “Piss off you grubby street rat“, and shoved him away. Only seconds later he fingered his pockets and was obviously relieved to find his wallet. He looked into it quickly and sighed with confirmation that he had not been robbed. “Shove off, scumbag!“ he growled and walked away.

Sherlock had to suppress a smug smile. His nimble hands had obtained the wallet easily and as the man struggled with standing up Sherlock had had a quick look into it before putting it back while pawing the man´s jacket. Sadly, there was no ID, telephone number or address in it, just 25 pounds, some small change and an assortment of five business cards. Sherlock memorized them quickly and filed them in the newly built room in his mind palace for this man to ponder about their importance later on.

_That went swimmingly. Unfortunately nothing concerning his identity. Well, I´ll send the photo to my Homeless Network, see if they´ll track him down. I´ll also ask the other boys in the park if they know him._

Hugh was already busy again somewhere else as Sherlock arrived back at the park. On his way there the detective made sure that Betty, one of his vagrant minions who kept begging for money or food on a street corner of this main road, returned the items he nicked from John earlier this afternoon. At least his address was now familiar to Sherlock.

The detective returned to the park hoping that he would find Hugh to question him about his strange client but was disappointed to find out that the rent boy was already gone with another client. Sherlock had to wait until he was back at Billy´s den until he saw Hugh again. Hugh was high by the time and unwilling to answer Sherlock´s questions but complied as he promised to leave him to his bliss quickly if he just told him about the man.

The man had introduced himself as “Master“

 _Very innovative, indeed_ _boring, dull, insipid_

and had demanded to tie Hugh up and work him with his hands and a paddle. So far that was nothing unusual but Hugh had the definite notion that Master punished him not for his sexual arousal but for something else. His cock had remained flaccid all the time no matter how much Hugh acted out his wailing and crying and being submissive.

Nevertheless, the client had asked if Hugh would be amenable for him again and if he would also consent to a threesome. As long as they both paid his full fee, Hugh had no objections whatsoever to serve this client again. And his friend. He gave Master the business number of his mobile phone so that he could contact him any time without the need of returning to the hooker´s park.

The other thing which Sherlock found even more noticeable was that Master had asked Hugh several times if he knew the whereabouts of another hooker named Gerald. Which Hugh did not. In fact, he had never heard of any Gerald at all. But since almost all of the boys had a stage name maybe he only knew him by his moniker. The client had not known how Gerald looked like and had not explained why he looked for him.

Sherlock texted his Homeless Network to forward him any information concerning this Gerald-person and also sent the photo he took of Master in the park asking if anyone knew who he is or where he lived. Also, he implored Hugh that he should text Sherlock instantly if the client would get in contact with him again.

Something about Master was very, very disconcerting.


	7. SAILOR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading so far.  
> Thanks for the kudos, comments, bookmarks and subscriptions.  
> I highly value each one. They mean very very much to me!!!❤❤❤
> 
> the tag drug use applies to this chapter

I wanna heal, I wanna feel, what I thought was never real

I wanna let go of the pain I´ve felt so long (Erase all the pain till it´s gone)

I wanna heal, I wanna feel, like I´m close to something real

I wanna find something I´ve wanted all long

Somewhere I belong

Somewhere I belong, Linkin Park

**_In the past_ **

Sherlock had been out of his last sojourn in a rehab clinic for about five weeks when he decided to finally drop out of university. The utter futility of the whole endeavour with studying chemistry had been badly gnawing at his brain before but could have been assuaged by the (obviously! scientifically!) controlled use of Sherlock´s beloved 7% solution of cocaine or “liquid deliverance“, as he liked to call it.

He had always found the classes to be incredibly dull and had raged against the stern rules and time tables he had to follow because he saw no further meaning in them other than to slow him down in his learning and to bore him out of his mind.

Due to his acerbic and brusque nature and his ability to put off everyone within minutes if he let his deductions of his miserable fellow human beings flow freely, he had no friends and was generally hated and/or disdained by the other students, as well as by his teachers. Not that Sherlock needed friends or even longed for being socially acquainted with anyone at all. The other humans were just so infuriatingly stupid that Sherlock had to restrain his urge to merely throttle them all. He liked being on his own and spent most of his time performing all kinds of experiments in advanced chemistry in the vast labs the university offered and combing through the tomes in the giant library.

Still, the boredom and general feeling of being constantly underwhelmed persisted no matter what he did to exercise his brain. Sadly, the consequence was that somehow and inexplicably the compulsion to soothe his mind with the liquid deliverance had become more and more predominant until one day he miscalculated the amount of cocaine powder while he prepared his solution. Which ended in an overdose and resulted in a very strung-out and mostly senseless Sherlock getting himself run over by a car as he staggered onto the street in front of his campus, his brain completely addled.

Sherlock had always known in the deep recesses of his vast mind that his cocaine abuse would eventually be the reason for his final demise. Which did not stop him from using it to feel better and would never have done so anyway. Bliss and downfall made the proverbial sides of the coin of his cherished liquid deliverance and someday, inevitably, it would become the coin that was laid upon his forever closed eyes to pay Charon the ferryman to row him to the other side of the underworld. Not that Sherlock believed in any sort of religion but the thought had such a nice morbid air that Sherlock kept this picture in his mind palace.

The good thing about the car accident was that the vehicle merely drove very slow and therefore only knocked him over, resulting in a broken shinbone, two fractured ribs and a concussion. The bad thing about the whole incident was that _of course_ the frantic driver called an ambulance which _of course_ brought Sherlock into the nearest hospital where they _of course_ drew blood and found the drug in his system _of course_ leading to the doctor filing the incident in his computer which _of course_ led to his fucking brother Mycroft coming to the hospital who _of course_ wasted no time and forced him back into rehab for a second stay there. Life just sucked. _Of course_.

Sherlock had managed to become clean in record time because he loathed every second in the facility and knew exactly that he had no other choice than to accomplish his task. The longer he tried to delay it the longer he would have to stay. So he decided to detox on cold turkey because it was the fastest way he could think of and no one could blame him for not having an iron will and complete control over his transport if he deigned to find it necessary.

On his day of release Sherlock had only one thought, namely to get high as soon as possible but his accursed brother disclosed to him that he had taken the liberty to freeze Sherlock´s bank account and to only let him have a tiny amount of money to pay for his every day needs. Which definitely did not include his never stopping yearning for cocaine.

Sherlock threw an epic temper tantrum that left his brother utterly unconcerned and Mycroft simply dumped him at his campus, being all the way sincerely _friendly_ to him and claiming he only wanted Sherlock to be well and happy. It nearly made him puke. Seeing his brother truly caring for him disturbed Sherlock tremendously.

_Oh, here you go, Mr. Caring-Is-Not-An-Advantage Preposterous Self-Contradictory Utter Arsehole! Just fuck off and leave me alone!_

It was absolutely mind wracking because Sherlock found it quite difficult to hate his overbearing git of a brother at this very moment. Instead he turned to loathe himself for being such a milksop. As if he ever could be happy in his life for a longer period. Without cocaine. And morphine. Without being constantly bored.

Sherlock seethed for days in his small room on campus and became more and more agitated with the whole fucking situation.

He. Just. Needed. A. Hit.

Also, at least no one could ever blame Sherlock for not being resourceful and cunning so he quickly figured out a way to get his hands on enough money to obtain his liquid deliverance once more. An old childhood habit came in very handy. Which was sort of funny. Or maybe sad. Anyway that actually did not matter at all.

When he had been a little boy and curious about everything, especially the places and things that had been forbidden, he taught himself how to pick locks. When his parents realized that he sneaked into the closed rooms and opened the cupboards of the vast Holmes Manor anyway a sort of arms race began. His parents never scolded him much but bought ever more sophisticated locks resulting in the six year old boy to teach himself pick-pocketing instead because the locks became eventually too difficult for his child´s hands. As a result he started to go for the keys themselves, managing to get them out of and back in people´s pockets when he needed them.

So now, many years later, this childhood game became the key to sustain his current illicit needs. Sherlock was already familiar with a lot of highly questionable folk and he quickly found someone with and on whom he could whip his pick-pocketing skill into shape again. His nimble and agile violinist´s fingers served him very well for that purpose, too.

After one week of intense training he felt fit to go for the real thing. Sherlock had always been able to deduce people naturally without a lot of thinking and as he grew older he just got more skilful at it. It was easy for him to pick potential targets: people who were distracted, trustful and unobservant but had money in their pockets.

Sherlock realized soon that if he dressed and acted accordingly he could easily pass as a teenage schoolboy and by that obtain a charisma of complete innocence. It was hilariously simple to get close to his targets, asking for the time or pretending to be lost and steal from them while they tried to help him. No one ever suspected anything and Sherlock always got away scot-free.

He stole just enough to buy his cocaine from one of his two favourite because very reliable dealers, namely one Brian Hambly and one Billy Wiggins, and spent his time hanging around only pretending to still follow his chemistry courses.

Sherlock used his vast amount of newly available spare time to roam around London, visiting places, mapping every back-alley, abandoned house, possible hideaways et cetera in his labyrinthine mind palace and also getting to know a lot of people that would become useful to him on a professional basis much later in his life. It kept him busy, he was not that bored anymore and he did not need so much of the liquid deliverance. In fact, Sherlock Holmes was quite content with his life. Which was a first.

Several weeks after finally abandoning university Sherlock was hunting for his next victim. He had been lazy over the last week and had run out of cocaine as well as money due to his inattention. He felt antsy and was nearing to experience withdrawal symptoms so he was impatient to find his prey.

Sherlock was in his schoolboy getup and roamed a street near a place where the male streetwalkers worked. He knew by experience that the punters had cash and their lewdness made them careless. Sherlock wanted to score quickly and that was when he saw a man walking out of the backyard. He trailed him a bit to ensure that the man was indeed his next suitable victim. Sherlock sneaked silently up to him and dipped his hand into the man´s back pocket.

Sailor was walking down the street that led away from the narrow shadowy backyard where he had just met his prostitute contact for the soon to become trade with counterfeit money when he felt _it_.

 _It_ meaning a very subtle and undistinguished and therefore so very distinctive and _telling_ tug at the back pocket of his jeans. A pocket that was well covered by the long leather jacket he wore and which contained his wallet. Meaning that there of all places should not be felt any tugging at all.

Sailor himself had been a very able pick pocket in his younger years, he started his thieving career in his early teens even before he became an actual sailor on a trading ship. He eventually got a sailor tattoo in Shanghai on his right bicep which caused his nickname after he debarked for good. Sailor liked the moniker and so it happened that all people who knew him nowadays referred to him by that name while his real one became a secret.

While crossing the seven seas he practiced a lot of pick pocketing and brought his considerable skill to good use in all the ports where his ship moored. So, although he had long ago quit with that way of obtaining money, he had been a very successful fence for the last six years, after all at the age of 46 his fingers were not as nimble as they had been when he was 20, but still he immediately recognized the work of a _colleague_. It was done quite skilfully though and had Sailor not exactly known what it felt like he would have never realized that someone was trying to steal his wallet. He could not even remember to have seen anyone coming close to him so the thief had to be right behind him now.

With an extremely quick turning of his body while he grabbed at the withdrawing hand and catching it at the wrist, putting all his pressure into holding it tight, Sailor spun around to get a look at the bugger who had just tried to rob him. He heard a soft gasp and who he saw was… definitely not what he expected.

The culprit turned out to be a tall and scrawny street rat, long messy black curls framing a remarkably aristocratic face, who stared wide-eyed at him in unconcealed shock. Sailor brought the thin wrist up to eye level and halfway expected to find the hand holding his wallet. But it was empty. The kid had gone utterly motionless and stared blankly at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

They had come to a perfect stand still, neither of them moving or saying anything. Sailor estimated the kid´s age about fifteen because his face showed no sign of stubble and yet he was as tall and lanky as someone having experienced a growth spurt recently. He was clad in baggy jeans and a blue sweatshirt with a band name on it, a satchel was hanging on his skinny shoulder and a black baseball cap tried to tame his riotous curls. He looked utterly young, lost and frightened.

“Please, let me go. You´re hurting me. You scare me!“ the teen pleaded with a soft rumbling voice and gently tugged his arm in an attempt to get free.

Sailor stared into his large puppy eyes and felt instantly contrite. Maybe he got it wrong? The boy looked completely innocent. He pondered letting him go. He was no man to mistreat children.

“Please, I have to go home, my parents are waiting with dinner“, the teen begged again.

Sailor stared back into a pair of mesmerizing multi-coloured eyes and only because of that he caught the minute moment when the boy scrutinized him with a gaze no teen could possibly achieve. A massive and cunning brain was working behind those innocuous eyes, a calculating, assessing and absolutely brilliant mind. In the fraction of a second the look was gone again as something behind these stunning irises shifted and left only the frightened boy behind.

_Oh, he is good. Really good!_

“Your acting is very skilful but you don´t fool me. You´re not a schoolboy! How old are you really?“ he inquired sternly.

Sailor lowered his hand but didn´t decrease the force of his vice like grip around the thin wrist. He could feel the delicate bones grinding against the tendons under the skin and he was sure that there would be bruises left afterwards. It must hurt the boy but he showed no further signs of pain.

There was another subtle shift behind the pale blue grey eyes and the whole demeanour of the boy changed. Instead of fear his eyes now conveyed lewdness while the not-teen licked his lips lasciviously. He looked at Sailor with a positively salacious gaze and purred in a most sensual baritone.

“I´m a legal adult. My clients like me calling them Daddy while they fuck a body that looks like an underage teen, clean-shaven _everywhere_ …“

“So now you pretend to be a streetwalker trying to seduce me?“

He looked at Sailor from under his gorgeously curved eyelashes.

“Is it working? I could make you feel _sooo_ good. Want me to suck you off?“

William made an utterly indecent sucking noise with his plush lips and performed a most telling motion with his slender hips.

“Your hand was on my arse.“

He didn´t deny it nor batted an eye. “Of course it was. I wanted to get a feel of it. It´s very _handy_.“

“OK. Maybe you really are a professional cocksucker. At least you´re a very good actor. I have to give you that. But your pick pocketing skills are rather lacking in expertise.“

Sailor was astonished about himself because he realized that his anger at the thief was completely gone and instead found himself to be fascinated by the other´s quicksilver personality.

Yet another shift happened behind these iridescent eyes,

_Will he never stop changing?_

and now they smoothed into a cool streetwise expression. Gone was any licentious behaviour, the young man shed the allurement of his posture like a snake would cast its old skin. It was sort of unnerving to behold the sudden transitions.

“I did not try to pull your wallet out of your back pocket“ he said pouting and sounding insulted.

“Oh, you´ve been quite subtle but the last dip with your thumb gave you away. It sticks out, that´s when I felt you.“ Sailor was content to see a tiny bit of contrition on the other´s face.

“So show me how to do better then“, he demanded with a haughty raising of an eyebrow.

A demand to be taught was not at all what Sailor expected. Denying the attempted theft, yes, trying to talk himself out of it, of course, but blatantly admitting it by requesting to know what he did wrong? Unbelievable.

 _Well, with this one I guess I should not expect anything at all because he´s simply unpredictable_.

“Why do you think I could or would do so?“

The younger man scoffed. “Oh please, don´t insult my intelligence, that´s absolutely tedious. You´ve obviously been a very adept pickpocket yourself, judging by the agility with which you move your fingers and the way you know what it feels like. And no one ever caught me before.“

“There´s always a first time“, Sailor retorted drily.

The thief hesitated answering for a moment then seemed to make a decision and uttered shrewdly, “Like the expansion of your fencing business towards dealing with counterfeit money?“

In the blink of an eye Sailor shoved the startled man hard against the wall of the house behind them, the curly head hitting the brick wall with a loud thud while the baseball cap fell to the ground. The second hand grabbed tightly around the wanker´s throat, making breathing difficult for him. A choking noise escaped his mouth but otherwise the pinned pickpocket did not break eye contact and gazed calmly into Sailor`s agitated face.

“Not wise to say this. Not very bright to incriminate me, you sleazy thief. Now what shall I do with you?“ Sailor hissed and glared at him through dangerously squinted eyes.

The thief croaked, “Well? You beat me up? Fuck me? Or teach me? Just get it over with deciding. I´m already tired of this.“

Sailor was baffled by the sheer audacity of this answer as the bugger seemed to be totally unconcerned of any possible result. He saw only blunt disinterest bordering on boredom in the youthful face. He felt strangely disarmed.

“How can you be so cool about getting beat up?“ Sailor let go of the throat but kept on holding the captured wrist tightly.

“It will neither be the first nor the last time I get bashed. My body will heal, for me it´s nothing but transport“, he stated with an impatient snort, lacking any further emotion.

Sailor became shockingly aware of the young man´s resigned posture: he let his head hang down while his body had turned listless. Sailor was reminded of a half wild dog that always got kicked when it showed an amount of trust to someone but had not yet given up trying even if it experienced disappointment and rejection every time.

_What have they done to you that you can´t be afraid of suffering pain anymore?_

“What´s your name?“

“William. Now that you know will you finally let fucking go of my fucking wrist!“ It was the first time he became angry.

“Will you bolt if I let it go?“

“No.“

William instantly moved a step away from Sailor as he released him while pulling his injured wrist close towards his chest and examining it carefully. The skin already showed blueish bruises. William glared darkly at Sailor and if looks could kill the man would have dropped dead on the spot.

Sailor ogled the thief warily before giving in to his curiosity asking: “How did you get the idea about fencing and counterfeit money?“

He earned himself a downright disdainful gaze and William sneered at him with an unbelievable amount of condescension.

“It´s plain as day when one deduces the contents of your wallet.“

“How would you know what´s in my wallet?“ Sailor asked incredulously.

William sighed, “Ah, for God`s sake! I did not lie when I told you I wasn´t trying to pull your wallet _out_ _of_ your pocket“, he exhaled in exasperation, “you caught me while putting it _back in_. I´ve got no use for counterfeit money, trying to pay with that would probably get me killed.“

_Unbelievable!_

A chuckle escaped Sailor´s mouth and laughter lines formed around the corners of his eyes. “You cheeky brat! So I pinched you while you were, um, un-picking?“

William nodded casually and shrugged. “That´s apparently what you get for giving people their things back.“ He held up his wrist accusingly.

“Hmpf. Well, what did you intend to do with my money?“

“Paying for my cocaine habit since my brother froze my funds after my latest rehab.“

There was no remorse or shame at all, just a matter-of-factly given plain answer. William scrutinized Sailor´s face in a way that made the older man very uncomfortable, so he decided to put on a menacing scowl.

“I just should get rid of you, druggie-boy.“

William did not blink and remained absolutely impassive. “You could inject me with enough cocaine and make it look like an overdose. Would be a nice way to die actually.“ His eyes glazed over in a dreamy expression.

“Great! So you´re a mad, suicidal junkie-thief“, disgust contorted Sailor´s face.

“No, I´m just _fucking_ _bored_ of this utterly _meaningless_ life. There´s nothing that could occupy my brain for long and it tears itself apart if unchallenged. So it´s cocaine to alleviate boredom and heighten my thought processes!“

William nearly yelled the last sentence, becoming more and more agitated and started to fiercely pull at his curls. Sailor halfway expected to see tufts of hair in his hand due to the sheer force he used.

William took some time to get in control of his heavy panting before he mumbled almost shyly: “If you teach me the thing with my thumb I could help your business with deducing the intentions of your customers, that would be a welcome distraction from the cocaine as well as ensuring they won´t take you to the cleaners.“ He looked down at his feet, shoulders sagging.

Sailor stared at William like he had just seen an alien. He pondered the proposal for a while and the boy shuffled his feet in the awkward silence that ensued, still deliberately not looking at him.

Making a sudden gut decision Sailor exclaimed: “Ah, fuck it! Come with me. But if you make me regret this you´ll be the one regretting that I did not kill you right away.“

Finally William looked up again, all of his brazen confidence from earlier back as he quipped, “You´d never kill someone. You´re not the type. I see it plainly.“

_Oh buggering fuck. There´s no way arguing with him. Of course he´s right. The wanker!_

Sailor got the undeniable hunch that the blasted bastard would always be right.

_This is going to be arduous._

“I´m Sailor by the way“, he offered his hand and sighed.

William took it: “I can see that plainly as well.“

_Fuck!_

During the following month Sherlock retrieved all his things from his room on the university campus and moved into a small chamber in Sailor´s little house. He told no one what he was up to and simply vanished. There were much less CCTV cameras around London back then and Sherlock knew very well how to avoid getting spotted by any of them. Sherlock Holmes just disappeared. Instead William Scott emerged and quickly became a valued associate of Sailor who was very respected and well-known in his business and the London underworld.

In the months that followed William helped Sailor with the business, he dealt with the clients, estimated the value of the goods, took care of accounting and the general logistics of storage and resale. He became very good at it. Sailor found him most helpful, he saved him several times from making false decisions and even once unmasked an undercover policeman who tried to gather evidence to convict Sailor for fencing. Just by looking at the way his shirt was buttoned.

The two men became friends. William was quite surprised about this development, he would have never expected to have one at all but liked it a lot. He felt useful, accepted as he was (he had not changed his usual acerbic behaviour) he even was happy and the need for drugs became distant. He still used out of habit but a lot less often than while at uni. Sailor didn´t judge his habit as long as he ensured to be at his full brain capacity while they had business to attend do.

William also learned a lot of very useful skills from Sailor who quickly became sort of a mentor. How to be a perfect pickpocket. How to evaluate the worth of valuables. How to sell them again. How to successfully break and enter without leaving a trace. How the police investigated crimes. How to falsify an identity. He also got to know a lot of people with other advantageous skill sets. Some of them would become a member of his later network which did not solely consist of homeless people.

William suddenly had a life he loved. He had a job he was excellent at. Where he could use and constantly occupy his massive intellect. He was not bored anymore. Mycroft was out of his hair because he had never found the vanished Sherlock again and William could live like he wanted to with a new identity he had falsified himself. He saved the money Sailor gave him for his services and was provided with free lodging and food. The neat, tidy, little and absolutely innocuous terraced house in one of London´s working class suburbs became William´s home.

To the unsuspecting neighbours of Paul Hobbs (the name under which Sailor was known here) William Scott was introduced as a distant cousin who had found work in the city and needed an affordable place to live and that was that. No further questions asked. One existed peacefully beside each other and astonishingly there was no curiosity or prying because all residents kept their own affairs.

William´s domestic bliss and his flourishing illicit dealings lasted for about seven months.

The day Sailor died the Earth stood still. At least that was what it felt like for William. Two hours ago everything had been peachy keen and then everything went straight to hell in the single second when William found Sailor lying murdered on the floor in their living room. It was bloody awful. Literally.

William hat met with a promising young female burglar who wanted to sell her stolen jewellery and he had purchased the whole of it after a very successful negotiation about the sum he would pay and offering a deal of exclusivity if she would bring more of this quality in the future. His mood was exalted and on his way back to the house he had stopped at their favourite bakery for home-made ginger nuts for himself and lemon muffins for Sailor.

The very moment William entered the house he felt that something was off. The door had been closed and there were no signs of a break-in but every single hair on his body suddenly stood up in a kind of electric thrumming and every inch of his skin prickled and screamed shrilly “danger-danger-danger“ at him.

He hastened down the hall towards the living room because his superior sense of smell had already detected the coppery stench of spilled blood which emanated through the small gap of the unclosed door. He hesitated to push it open afraid what he would have to lay his eyes upon and facing the fear that something terrible had happened to the only friend he had. The house was deadly silent but William´s heart beat loud like thunderous squalls rolling over a stormy sea.

Sailor lay in a weird heap on the floor in front of the coffee table in a puddle of blood, the crimson liquid still oozing out of two deep stab wounds in his chest. His eyes were staring with a surprised expression at the ceiling while his hands were clenched in shock.

The bakery box slipped out of William´s hands while he collapsed to his knees at the side of his dead friend. He felt the stabs he saw on the dead body ripping through his own heart which withered away until only a hard and unfeeling piece of stone remained.

This day William´s world stopped turning. His lungs stopped inhaling. His heart stopped beating. The pain was simply too much.

William. Just. Died.

He had no idea how much time had passed until his senses came back to him. He was crouched in a foetal position on the floor beside Sailor, the blood had coagulated in the meantime and his eyes had glazed over. The only person that had accepted, valued and even liked him as he was gone.

The cruel universe did not care about their small lives. It just went on like it had for eons. The Earth kept revolving around the sun. The sun still shone. One death was nothing in the face of eternity. The man who had been William finally understood what Mycroft meant when he had told him in another life that “caring is not an advantage“. He swore to never ever let someone into his now shrivelled heart again. To never feel anything for another human being again. To never experience such excruciating pain again. He punished the uncaring universe by deleting its movements from his mind palace but the hurting did not get any better.

The man also swore to survive. He swore to find the one who tore his world to pieces. To make that one suffer and rot in hell. To revenge Sailor. He owed his single friend justice for all that he had done for William. He would remain alone to protect the wretched rest of his withered heart.

There was no need to hurry. The man took his time to examine the crime scene with a meticulous abundance of patience. He memorized every detail and procured every useful evidence. It took him 219 minutes to figure out who killed Sailor and why. He knew the murderer, it was a long-time client. The man would need more time to figure out how to tip off the police so that the moronic officers would arrest the culprit and find enough evidence to get him convicted for murder but that could not be done here.

The man took another 174 minutes to clean the house of any evidence that William had ever lived here. He packed his clothes and various things of his belongings into a large bag and took his money and only his as he did not intend to steal anything from Sailor. He discarded the rest of his stuff. He left the house in the blackest night and did never look back to the life he lost.


	8. SILVERBLACK

Sometimes I feel like I don´t have a partner

Sometimes I feel like my only friend

Is the city I live in

Under The Bridge, Red Hot Chilli Peppers

After the encounter with Master, Sherlock spent half of the night in the streetwalkers´ park but nothing interesting happened before he retreated to Billy´s drug den feeling very disgruntled. The dealer did not know the suspicious client either and was also unaware about some hooker named Gerald.

The detective flopped down on his shabby mattress to do some brain work but had to drag it into another room first because in his absence he had gotten a new neighbour. The pasty looking youth who apparently had smoked enough crystal meth to make him paranoid wailed, flayed his limbs and mumbled constantly inane nonsense which altogether proved to be detrimental to proper thinking.

After relocating and suppressing the wish to simply throttle the meth-head, Sherlock went through all the details he had so far amassed concerning the case and concluded that Master was his prime suspect due to his strange behaviour. He recalled the five business cards in the man´s wallet: two were from takeaway restaurants,

_Not important_

one was a cab company,

_Maybe a lead but doubtful_

the fourth came from a DIY store,

 _Altogether irrelevant_ ,

but the fifth was

_Intriguing, indeed!_

The card had been diagonally split: the left half was jet-black whereas the right one was shiny silver. There was only one word imprinted in plain capital letters on the front which read “SILVERBLACK“. The “silver“ was written in silver on the black background, the “black“ in black on the silver background. It was a very simple design but it conveyed classiness, sincerity and competence in a dramatic way. The backside of the card was plain black. No address, no number, no name, no homepage, no nothing besides the one word on the front.

Sherlock had never come across something or someone called Silverblack before and tried to deduce what business it would be. A hairdresser? An escort service? A jewellery shop? An advertising agency? He had no idea but thank God the internet existed. One could find literally everything there if one knew which search tags to use.

So Sherlock opened the browser on his mobile, typed Silverblack+London and looked at the results. It was disappointingly easy to find the very distinctive logo but the answer to the little puzzle was absolutely _marvellous_.

Silverblack was a contractor that specialised in performing clinical trials for pharmaceutical companies. Sherlock instantly opened the provided homepage and read every detail there.

In summary it came down to this: Silverblack was a small but obviously well-established company with an excellent reputation in the pharmaceutical world. It was owned solely by a Dr. Lucielle Annique Cobbler-Jones.

 _Whoever gives their children such ludicrous names, but well, who am I to make fun of people with strange forenames?_ _John is in contrast a very pedestrian name, but the man himself is not, he is fascinating, damn, focus on the case Sherlock, you utter git!_

The woman had a doctor´s degree in biochemistry and had founded the company about seventeen years ago. There was no picture of her on the homepage. She had eleven employees and had worked for nearly every notable pharmaceutical company in the last years if one could believe her quotation of references.

But the main thing that really got Sherlock´s mind into somersaulting was the fact that Silverblack had specialized in the investigation of addictions, be it to alcohol, nicotine, pills or illegal drugs. They performed clinical trials on new and still experimental molecules provided by the big pharmaceutical companies to cure addiction or to help with withdrawal symptoms or to stabilise the rehab process. This work was vital in the process to get a new medical drug licensed for use on patients on a regular basis in the public health sector.

Sherlock instantly knew that this had to be the real connection between the missing or dead rent boys. The mere fact that they were addicted to illicit substances and sold their bodies was just too random, too non-distinctive. Why just these three hookers? There were so many more fitting into this vast category in London. But if these three had had in any way dealings with Silverblack it would make the question what made the murderer/abductor choose especially them as victims so much more comprehensible.

Sherlock felt a surge of new energy rushing through his body quite similar to the time when he used to inject the liquid deliverance into his veins. The thrill of the chase never failed to push his brain and body to maximum efficiency so that sleep and nourishment became utterly negligible. The inevitable crash that followed afterwards was regrettable but there was no way around it. As much as Sherlock wished it to be different he still was burdened with the measly body of a human being that required certain boring and tedious acts of maintenance now and then.

Sherlock spent the rest of the night sleepless on his lumpy mattress and searched the internet on anything concerning Silverblack and its proprietor. He pondered several plans what he would do when he would call the company´s telephone number right next morning depending on the answers he would get from them. He definitely had to gain access to the premises and better be able to sneak his way into the building itself. Even better get to talk to the owner herself.

At seven in the morning he had devised sixteen elaborate plans considering every possible outcome of the telephone call.

As it turned out, Sherlock had to come up with plan number seventeen because he had not anticipated _this_ result. Which vexed him immensely! Not that anyone would ever know, of course, but the incident would gain a place on the shelf in the failure room of his mind palace to be remembered and scoffed at forever.

_Stupid, stupid!_

_One of the most obvious things and I did not consider that. Must be due to the transport getting exhausted. Feeble transport! Unreliable when you need it. At least nothing happened because of this outcome concerning the case, but another mistake filling the failure room, it´s not how my brain should work._

_With the cocaine something like that would not have happened. Maybe I… No! Well, anyway, no use in whining about that. I have to become a proband for Silverblack´s current drug trial right now. Should clean myself up a bit but not too much since I´ll represent a homeless addicted rent boy in dire need of cash._

_Obviously._

Ten minutes before Sherlock had fallen into a spiral of chastising himself for his mental slip he had called the research company at eight sharp in the morning. A woman with a friendly warm voice had answered immediately and introduced herself as Helen Cole, secretary of Silverblack.

“What can we do for you?“, she had purred.

“I call because of your drug testing…“, Sherlock stalled.

“What´s your trial number?“

“Er, I don´t have one… yet?“, Sherlock blundered. This was not working out as it should have.

“Oh, I see. So you want to enlist as a proband for the CLEEN trial? We´re still recruiting addicts for it.“ Mrs Cole sounded pleased by the outlook of acquiring another willing test subject.

Sherlock jumped to the occasion: “Yes, yes. That´s it. How can I…?“

Mrs. Cole interrupted him friendly: “If you could be here at two this afternoon? Dr. Cobbler-Jones has a free hour in her time-table and could talk to you then. She´ll explain everything. What´s your name?“

“Sure. I´m Will Scott. What do I have to do?“ Sherlock gave his voice an eager edge.

Mrs Cole told Sherlock the address and explained he needed to bring a list of what and how much and how often he was currently using. She also told him to shower if possible to be clean for the physical examinations that would be needed. They definitely had experience in dealing with homeless people.

 _Everyone always wants a list_. _But I did not imagine it would be so easy to get into Silverblack and talk to the owner. I have to think of a good backstory for Will, though._

The detective decided to go back to his flat. His transport demanded nutrition and fluids badly and also taking a short nap would be a good idea. He had to be in full control of his mental and physical faculties when he faced Silverblack and inconvenient as it always was he still had a frail human body that needed a minimum of paying attention to it now and then.

At home he made tea and toast, quickly checked the ongoing kidney experiment he had left unattended at the flat, finally using the organs he had requested from Molly Hooper days before his current case and that had been ripening uselessly in the fridge before.

Then he slept for four hours like dead on top of his duvet. He awakened in a tetchy mood, feeling grimy and sweaty, which he definitely was, so he showered quickly and exchanged his stained and atrociously reeking hoodie for a shabby T-shirt in faded red to show off his track marks. Sherlock kept wearing the dirty and torn jeans and the smutched trainers, he was supposed to be flat broke and homeless after all. No need to dress up too much.

He disguised his unmistakeable mop of inky curls by donning a worn baseball cap. A look in the mirror showed him a thin man with red-rimmed eyes and a sickly looking face. Lack of sleep and nutrition came in handy sometimes, it was like he was wearing a sign screaming “junkie“ glued onto his forehead. Which was good, obviously. He hoped it would be enough to entice Dr L.A.C-J to include Will in her ominous drug trial.

Sherlock pondered on how to get to Silverblack. Using public transport was completely out of limits.

The detective was still peeved at the London Underground because they had denied letting him enter a carriage to get to Bart´s three months ago with the cadaver of a dead deer he had draped across his shoulders for easier carrying.

The conductor at the station had claimed that the entrails which were dangling limply out of the large abdominal wound which the deer had contracted in a car crash were too unsanitary and the sight of them would upset the other passengers. Sherlock had been planning to examine the cadaver at the morgue to prove that the accident was in fact an attempted murder because the deer had been driven onto the road on purpose to cause a fatal car crash. The husband was keen on the money from his wife´s life insurance. Why on earth did everyone just have to have such feeble stomachs and narrow minds and insisted on being utterly tiresome?

Sherlock decided it would be downright stupid to arrive at Silverblack´s in an expensive taxi when he was supposed to be destitute. Also, he was tired of the suspicious glances the cabbies ogled his junkie persona with and the inane questions that would undoubtably follow.

No. He would walk. The lab was not too far away. An idea sprang into his mind and made Sherlock grin widely. He could stop at Angelo´s first since it was on the way to Silverblack.

Before he went out, Sherlock wrapped himself in his beloved Belstaff coat which was much too warm for the season but covered his dirty clothes. He would leave his coat at the restaurant which was only some blocks away from Baker Street. Angelo would guard the coat with his life and Sherlock could walk the remaining ten minutes to Silverblack from there.

He planned on having a plate of pasta.

Yes, sometimes even the world´s only consulting detective Sherlock Holmes succumbed to the pedestrian urge to shovel Angelo´s heavenly delicious _conchiglie alla marinara_ into his mouth. Sherlock liked seafood very much as long as there was no tuna involved, eating tuna felt bad, somehow. Inexplicably so.

The detective was greeted enthusiastically by Angelo who pulled him into a bone crushing bear hug. After removing his coat he had to reassure a most upset restaurant owner that the colourful track marks on his arms were only faked for his current case and that he was indeed in good health.

The sight of his apparent drug use really had gotten Angelo on edge which was quite unexpected by Sherlock who always thought that he was only tolerated by people but never actually cared about. He promised Angelo that he would return for a piece of cake afterwards and Angelo simply had beamed at him like the sun. Or rather like a hundred suns.

Sherlock had a sweet tooth and loved Angelo´s lemon cake. Consuming it would make him happy with a sugar-high. Also, he could take a close-up photo of the cake with a fork stabbed into it and send it to Mycroft. Just to rile him up.

40 minutes later Sherlock arrived at the guarded gate of the main entrance to Silverblack. The object was a run of the mill non-residential building, just slightly prestigious with a glass and steel construction at its main entrance, the rest was built of plain concrete with lots of windows for letting in daylight on the three stories. It had a flat roof, was surrounded by a small parking lot, a little patch of lawn and some bushes and was protected from the trespassing public by a high barbed wire fence and a CCTV system.

Sherlock went to the booth with was inhabited by a security guard and told the man of his appointment with Dr Cobbler-Jones. The man did not bat an eye at the wretched state of the drug addict demanding entry, he merely checked over the phone with the secretary inside before he buzzed open the door.

Sherlock passed the fence, crossed the parking lot, there were seven cars, none of them too expensive or remarkable in any way and entered the hall behind a glass revolving door. A young smallish woman with bright red hair and dressed in a flouncy summer dress with loads of printed rose blossoms on it greeted him enthusiastically. By her voice she had to be the secretary Mrs Cole.

“Welcome Mr Scott. So nice you made it in time. The owner awaits you in her study here in the basement, just walk straight on, it´s on the left, the door with the large Silverblack logo.“

Sherlock nodded and ambled off, rapped on the door and entered after hearing a clear “Just come in.“

Dr Lucielle Annique Cobbler-Jones was standing in the middle of the room and did absolutely not look like Sherlock had expected her to. The unwieldy name, her age of 48 and her scientific background had suggested to Sherlock that she would be a round, motherly and visually dull woman, probably wearing glasses, sporting a practical but unfashionable haircut and wearing unglamorous clothes under a white coat. Overall being a completely lacklustre woman by mere looks.

“Welcome to Silverblack, Mr Scott.“ She greeted him politely in a smooth velvety voice and offered a long fingered bony hand which had different silver rings on each finger.

Sherlock had seldom been so wrong in his presumptions. _Silverblack, indeed_ was all Sherlock could think of in the first moment he set eyes upon the female doctor. He realized that he stared at her, being temporarily so perplexed that he even missed taking her hand to shake it.

The woman was nearly as tall as Sherlock and also very slender. While her face was average concerning general beauty the way she dressed was definitely striking. She had plaited her long dark brown but heavily greying hair into a nice pigtail that reached down to her waist to show off her pale face with the black lipstick, the black eyeliner surrounding her stunning blue-grey eyes and her jewellery adorned ears.

She wore long earrings and also had multiple piercings like silver rings and studs or bars in both helices. She was clad in black skin-tight jeans laced at the outer side of her well-formed thighs which were tucked into high heeled black boots also laced in the front up to her knees with a large assortment of different silver studs and buckles on them.

She wore a metallic shining silver shirt with a v-neck that showed several silver chains and a black lace choker around her neck, a black skull imprinted on the flowing fabric. A calf-long black soft leather coat, also decorated with silver studs, buckles and chains completed her extravagant outfit. All in all it was an arresting punkrock getup that fitted her perfectly despite her age, although it bordered on overkill.

She smiled warmly at Sherlock and asked amusedly “Have you expected a small, corpulent and uninteresting woman with glasses, an unfashionable haircut and unglamorous clothes under a white coat?“

Sherlock felt like being confronted with a Sherlockian deduction himself and choked out “Er, well… ah, I… um, yes.“ Because fuck all he definitely _had_.

A steely undertone sneaked into her pleasant voice. “My company, my rules, my taste. I am Silverblack!“ She left no doubt who was in charge here and that she better not be underestimated in business manners judging her by her outfit alone.

“Sorry, I didn´t mean to insult you“, the detective felt strangely chided by her.

_Why do I apologize? I never apologize. I would apologize to John… damn… just focus!_

She merely raised an eyebrow and chuckled while the delicate earrings chimed softly as she moved her head to gesture for Sherlock to sit down on one of three comfy looking armchairs around a small coffee table. There were already some papers and brochures, pens as well as a tea tray on it.

“Don´t worry. That´s how people usually react“, she said and sat down.

“People are idiots“, he retorted out of reflex and took a seat himself.

“Says the one doing drugs. So what is your high of choice?“ She poured him a cup of steaming Earl Grey tea.

“I´m shooting up cocaine regularly and morphine occasionally.“

Sherlock finally got his feet under him again, fell into the Shezza persona and let his eyes wander away from her face, appearing to be ashamed of his addiction.

“Very well!“ she exclaimed excitedly, “that´s great actually.“

She even clapped her hands. The multiple silver and skull-adorned bracelets around her frail wrists rattled and clanked against each other, producing melodic metallic sounds.

_What a weird thing to say. And do. My assumed habit really makes her happy…_

His face must have gotten a quizzical expression because she instantly tried to vindicate herself. “I mean it is great for the trial because we don´t have enough intravenous cocaine users yet. This habit went out of fashion a couple of years ago.“

Sherlock shot her an affronted look, being appalled by her allusion that he was supporting an _unhip_ drug habit.

Dr Cobbler-Jones gestured to Sherlock´s bare arms “May I have a look, please?“

He nodded and slowly extended his arms to let her see his track marks.

She scrutinized them quickly and peered shortly at his eyes and nose afterwards and then she exhaled long and exasperatedly. All friendliness left her suddenly. Her face set in a fierce scowl and she all but snarled at him. Sherlock was stunned by her casual swearing, it was so misfitting this well-mannered lady.

“Cocaine! My ass! This is so fucking pointless! What shit are you trying to pull at me?“

Sherlock stared at her completely dumbfounded which was a very disconcerting feeling for someone who always had a witty quip at hand.

“Did you really try to take the piss out of me with your fucking faked track marks? I know exactly what fresh punctures look like. I´ve fucking worked with addicts for years! You´re not a user at all. So, you did shoot up in the past because the old scars are genuine but you did not inject or snort cocaine in a long time. The conjunctiva of our eyes are clear, the capillaries in your nose are intact, no small tremors in your fingers, your skin is healthy, shall I go on? What are you playing at, you liar?“ She shot a deathly glare at him.

Sherlock felt once again to be at the receiving end of a piercing stare that usually he directed at the victims of his deductions. It was quite discomforting. He kept staring at her and blinked like an utter moron.

_That was brilliantly observed and an ingenious deduction I have to admit. Is that how people feel when I dissect them verbally?_

Dr. Cobbler-Jones ranted on “Just get out and piss off!“

_They always tell me to piss off in the end. Why is that so? Everyone except John. But that´s beside the point now. Why does he always sneak into my thoughts anyway? Must concentrate on the case. John wanted to see me again. Argh, just focus, you stupid git!_

“So, what are you? Conspiracy theorist? No, too intelligent. Industrial espionage, then? No, not intelligent enough. Ah, yes, investigative journalist!“ She still ranted on.

_Well that was an utter inane deduction._

Sherlock felt somewhat relieved to still be the only one with his singular deducing skill.

 _No, wait, did she just assume I´m too dumb for industrial espionage? How insulting!_ _If I want I could gather any secret there is…_

“You want to see the dungeon with the cages where we keep our poor kidnapped victims to perform our inhuman and satanic experiments on before we sell their organs and burn the rest?“

She became more and more agitated and nearly started fuming.

“You´ll just write any rubbish you want to anyway to get loads of stupid people to protest at our front door with insipid home-made banners against the evil pharmaceutical industry and make our research even more difficult?“

Finally Sherlock´s temper got the better of him and he said scathingly “Why should I assume or do such utter rubbish? You are an above-average intelligent person, can´t you see I´m none of what you suspect? Don´t get dull already!“

Now her mouth snapped shut and she merely looked extremely offended at him. Maybe being called dull had hit a sore nerve. That at least was something Sherlock could very well relate to. Now she stared and blinked stupidly herself at Sherlock and the detective knew the universe finally set itself right again.

_That´s the way it has to be! I´m the genius here._

Sherlock sighed and decided to just tell her about the case. She was too clever and too aggravated to be fooled by anything else now. She had shown that she did not mind dealing with the homeless or addicted and thought of them as fully-fledged human beings that should be treated with respect like any other person rather than dismissing them as scum so she might care about them at least a bit.

She definitely cared at lot about the progress of her work, a thing that Sherlock could fully empathize with. After all, if the missing rent boys might have been included in the trial and dropped out due to their disappearance there were less test objects which must irk her somehow regarding her scientific interest.

So, Sherlock confessed to be investigating the missing or dead rent boys, posing as an addict and that he had found a business card of Silverblack on a suspect. He explained that he thought the drug trial to be the link between the victims and that he needed all the information he could get about the trial. While he clarified everything Dr Cobbler-Jones visibly relaxed more and more until she finally gave up her bristling demeanour and let herself slump back into the armchair with an air of embarrassed contrition and feeling devoid of any resistance towards the unnerving detective person sitting opposite her.

As Sherlock came to the end of his lengthy explanations she looked inquiringly into these uniquely coloured eyes before starting to speak.

“I believe you. Oh dear, I just made an utter fool of myself, did I not?“ She sighed and her cheeks flushed deeply red.

It was not beneath Sherlock to twist the knife in the wound and he stated drily “Indeed, you have.“

She sighed once more.

“So, I will apologize for attacking and insulting you. I´ll attempt to vindicate my ire and tell you that we, meaning Silverblack, have a nasty history of incidents concerning people who tried to infiltrate us or spy on the company for various reasons, like the ones I accused you of. Especially the yellow press likes to assume that the pharmaceutical industry is evil and always scheming dark plots and using the innocent for their sinister experiments. I´m just frankly so tired of this. So please accept my sincerely meant apology, Mr Scott.“ She offered her silver-ringed hand.

Which Sherlock did not hesitate to shake and he even felt coerced into admitting solemnly “I accept and no offense taken. I should not have tried to fool you but I´m used to people not telling me anything by simply asking for answers. People really are stupid, I come along it in the line of my work all the time and that definitely exhausts me as well.“

They both sat in silence, each lost in their thoughts and both took a long sip of their tea.

Dr Cobbler-Jones spoke first “Only five weeks ago we had a break-in and one of the labs had been ravaged by someone looking for drugs.“

That caught Sherlock´s attention immediately. “Tell me all about that!“ he demanded.

“There´s not much to tell. Steve Coombs, that´s my night security guard, got knocked down while the automatic alarm system was disabled. Someone broke into the building, entered the lab where the CLEEN trial is carried out, destroyed a lot of furniture and lab equipment looking for drugs to steal. Since we never have anything on the premises an addict could use to indulge himself, the burglar stole the two laptops that were in the room instead and disappeared. The police came and took notes, made photos, interviewed us all but until today nothing has been clarified. All in all we were lucky that we did not lose any data on the trial because all our computers are linked to our internal net but we lost several days due to paperwork, insurance policies, cleaning up and refurbishing.“

“What is this CLEEN trial all about?“

“Well, that´s the one you wanted to enter posing as a cocaine addict. Currently we´re researching a new and very promising molecule that could alter the way rehab processes are done. It affects certain receptors in the brain which are vital in the formation of addiction, meaning the brain´s craving for certain substances. Of course, it´s all confidential and I can´t further compromise our employer´s corporate secrets. If the molecule is as promising in dealing with humans as it has been in the pre-trials it will become a huge success. So we recruit all kinds of drug addicts to monitor how their usual drug habit will differ when taking a daily pill of SA-207, hopefully they will use a lot less or even stop because the cravings are less severe.“

“So the success of the trial is vital for the future of the company who owns the molecule?“

“Yes. But I think it would be a real gift in treating addicts and helping them to become and stay clean. Apart from shareholder value and all that.“

“Would the disappearance of trial members compromise the study?“

“If you allude to your three missing rent boys, no. It is inconvenient, of course, but we still recruit addicts and would just fill up the early drop-outs.“

“Do they earn a lot for enlisting?“

“No, not at all. They get no money before successfully completing the whole trial. There will be no payment when leaving the trial early or dropping out due to non-compliance. We can´t give them advance money since that would definitely alter their drug behaviour. But they would earn 400 pounds afterwards, which is a normal fee for trials such as this and there is a legal contract to be signed.“

“Have a Richard Shaw, a David O´Leary and a Colin Burns been participating in CLEEN?“

Until now, the doctor had been very open and accommodating but now she visibly closed up.

“I´m afraid, I can´t tell you that. You have to know that the CLEEN trial is randomized and double-blind, like all serious trials should be. Meaning that the subjects as well as the researchers don´t know who gets the verum and who takes a placebo. Our test subjects get a trial number, their names and habits are encrypted in our computers and an electronic program randomizes the groups. There´s only me who actually met all our subjects and learned their names but I´m not doing any research. I can´t compromise the outcome of the trial by telling you anything about who entered. I´m sorry.“

Sherlock did not like hitting a dead end. The disgruntlement must have shown on his face plainly because Dr Cobbler-Jones eyed him thoroughly for several seconds before stating “You seem to be caring about the destiny of the victims themselves and not only the solving of your case.“

Sherlock simply nodded. He really felt some connection to the rent boys. He normally would never admit to feel something at all about the victims of the crimes he investigated but this was different and he strangely trusted Dr Cobbler-Jones enough to confide that to her. Maybe it was because she was also not caring much about what people thought about her, meaning how she looked like and how she behaved but was very interested at being recognized as a sincere and successful scientist.

“Why is that so?“ she asked softly.

Sherlock hesitated and decided to keep telling the truth. “Because at one time in my past, at the lowest point in supporting my severe cocaine and morphine addiction I was already living on the streets and desperate to score and nearly became one of them.“

He raised his head and looked calmly and unabashedly into her eyes “It was sheer coincidence that my life took another turn and I became a consulting detective instead of dying in a gutter.“

The woman hummed in understanding. She gracefully stood up, went to her desk and started to type rapidly into the laptop sitting on it. Then she clapped a hand at her head and cried out in a very histrionic way.

“Ah, Mr Holmes, I was so immersed in our conversation that I completely forgot the time sensitive experiment I am currently running. Could you please excuse me for, let´s say, ten minutes? I have to go to my lab briefly. In the meantime, please feel free to look around. There are some interesting books on addiction on the shelf.“

Before she slid out of her office with softly chiming earrings she winked at a stunned Sherlock and gave him the tiniest nod with her chin as she left the room. The detective instantly got the meaning behind her weird behaviour. He quickly took the seat behind her desk and looked at her computer screen.

The laptop had been unlocked and showed a file with the names of the CLEEN participants. There were also the address, date of birth, profession, history of drug use and other personal facts enlisted. Sherlock scanned the file of about 85 persons and soon found the names of the three rent boys, their profession being titled as “sex worker“, their address as “none available“.

Sherlock really got excited as he came upon someone named Gerald Summer, sex worker, no address and even, at the very end of the list, Hugh David Linklater, sex worker, no address.

That made five homeless addicted rent boys in total participating in the trial, three of them missing or dead. Hugh had been approached by Master and had been questioned about Gerald. The drug trial was definitely the missing link between the victims and put Hugh and Gerald in immediate danger.

When Dr Cobbler-Jones returned to her office, Sherlock was sitting in his chair at the coffee table again, leafing through a book on chemical stimulants.

She gave him a sly sideways look and asked “I hope you found anything at your liking in my absence? I also hope you don´t resent me that I could not tell you anything about the trial members?“ She quirked an eyebrow inquisitively and grinned slyly at him.

“It´s really a shame but we have an understanding that you cannot compromise the trial. Anyway, you´ve been very helpful. I fully appreciate that“, he smiled genuinely back at her.

“Will you tell me if you eventually find the culprit?“

“Yes, I always find them. Be assured of that“, he said confidently.

“It has been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Holmes. If you have any more questions concerning your case just contact me.“

“Yes, likeways.“

Sherlock stood up and went to the door. In his back he heard her chuckling and the melodious clinking sounds that the multitude of her jewellery made. Finally he had found the connection between the rent boys and that two more were in immediate danger. He did not know yet _why_ these five had become targets but if he kept an eye on Hugh and his next date with Master he would catch the murderer.

Obviously!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was reading “Curse of the Were-Tuna“ by WhoGroovesOn on AO3 while writing that chapter, very funny!  
> So I had to establish a no-tuna-rule for Sherlock. Can´t be eating kin, can he?


	9. SHOT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tag case-related violence/torture applies to this chapter

Can you fix the broken, Well I´m begging on my knees

Can you save my bastard soul, will you ache for me?...

…Can you feel my heart?

I´m scared to get close and I hate being alone

I long for the feeling to not feel at all

The higher I get, the lower I sink

I can´t drown my demons, they know how to swim

Can you feel my heart, Bring me the Horizon

After his successful encounter with Silverblack Sherlock had to wait. Wait for either his Homeless Network to bring something up concerning the until now still unknown hooker named Gerald Summer (he instantly texted the full name to his Network and urged them for any kind of information) or on the photo of Hugh´s suspicious client named Master. Or wait for Hugh to text him that Master had made another appointment.

He also had to wait for Molly Hooper sending him the post mortem of Colin “Cocky“ Burns to gather further information concerning the circumstances of his death. Or for DI Lestrade to gather new information of whatsoever concerning the case.

Sherlock hated waiting in this kind of investigative limbo.

After leaving Silverblack and retrieving his Belstaff from Angelo´s he took a cab back to Baker Street. He had to slip back into the homeless addict persona and return to his vile mattress in the drug den. He did not look forward to make himself filthy again and wear the incredible smelly hoodie but needs must.

His thoughts circled around his case and sometimes drifted away and returned to his strange, interesting, curious, unbelievable encounter with the ex-army doctor. The one with the beautifully deep ocean blue eyes and the warm soulful laughter who found sleazy Shezza intriguing and most confusing of all even _likeable_. Who wanted to become his _friend_. What kind of deranged person would want to see someone as bedraggled as Shezza on a regular basis? Who would even seek him out?

_Well, Sir Sexy Soldier obviously does. Not that I´d disagree. I´d like to see the bullet scar. What would it feel like touching it? Would his short hair be soft? Would his hand tremble if he´d touch me?_

And why were his musings always bringing him back to the injured and suicidal doctor who nearly busted his undercover investigation with his impending stupid wish to eat his gun? He should really concentrate on what Master was up to and who he was but John kept worming into Sherlock´s hard drive like a computer virus. A virus that spread with a frighteningly fast velocity and was likely to overrun the whole system.

Maybe he should visit the doctor in his flat? He also could break in while John was away and have a look at his personal things to get to know more about the man. But if John ever found out that would sort of be a bit not good. He didn´t want John to be angry with him. Yet. In the long run it would be inevitable, of course. John definitely had anger issues.

Sherlock was not sure why he cared what John thought about him but he realized that he did. It was bad enough that the soldier still believed he was a homeless junkie, he had been so disappointed by his supposed drug habit in contrast to his brilliant mind. Better not make this worse by sneaking into his flat…

Well anyway, as Sherlock leapt up the seventeen steps to 221b he tried to figure out why these five hookers had been targeted. The connection was definitely that all of them were participants in the CLEEN trial but what for?

A competing company trying to spoil the tests by decimating the test subjects? And homeless addicts being more likely and more believable to overdose and die? But why was Missy mutilated and tortured like that? That was a bit overkill, was it not?

No, there was definitely something personal about the murder. Missy had been punished for something he had done. Maybe something all five had done? Had they teamed up for something? Or was it just one of the five rent boys that was the real target because of something that one had done but the murderer only knew that whatever it was that had been done had been done by a homeless rent boy who participated in the trial?

 _Confusing_ …

_But how could the murderer know their names but not know who…wait, there had been a break-in at Silverblack and two laptops were stolen. Maybe the murderer extracted the names and simply looked up how many sex workers there were enlisted. And then he just went through the list to find the one he searched for and did not bother with collateral damage, meaning killing the others, too? Or did he want to obscure his real target by killing unimportant bystanders? But then he could have chosen any drug addicted hooker. So why the CLEEN participants only?_

Sherlock´s brain whirred and churned with contemplating all the different ways to access the crime. By now he was absolutely sure that the two other missing prostitutes were also dead. The mysterious Gerald was definitely a target but the murderer did not know his whereabouts yet, otherwise he would not have asked Hugh so plainly about him. So, that left Hugh and his next appointment with Master as the strongest lead to follow. He had to shadow Hugh, follow him around and be ready to strike when Master reappeared.

Should he tell Hugh about the imminent danger he was in? But what if the hooker chickened out and did not want to meet with his potential murderer? Better not tell Hugh about that to not endanger his investigation? Use Hugh as bait? Tell him or not? Sherlock was not sure about how to deal with that problem. So he just texted Hugh again to instantly tell him when and where he was to meet Master next time and urged him to comply and be careful and make sure that Sherlock could follow him.

Sherlock postponed further dealing with the question of warning Hugh or not and changed into the Shezza persona once again. After 40 minutes he left his flat and went back to Billy´s den in order to join the rent boys in the park later when the afternoon was nearly over. He spent the time on his mattress waiting for news from the Network or the hookers but no one knew this Gerald-guy.

Hugh was busy but had heard nothing so far from Master and so the detective searched the internet with his mobile concerning competing pharmaceutical companies, facts about the break-in at Silverblack and he also tried to find someone looking like the photo he made of Master in the social media but all was to no avail. It made the detective decisively grumpy.

Leaving for the park in the early evening felt like salvation for Sherlock who had become more and more antsy being cooped up in the drug den. The weather went from dry and hot to stuffy and humid and Sherlock shrugged off the reeking hoodie and bound it around his waist longing for a cool breeze which did not come. He felt sweat tickling down his spine and soaking into the shabby formerly white tee shirt with the ripped off sleeves he wore underneath. His curls were plastered to his head and the scruff on his cheeks itched. He felt miserable and wished he had already solved the case and would be able to clean up and finally wear his normal attire again.

Sherlock had hung around the park for hours feeling terribly bored because nothing happened when his mobile rang so suddenly that he nearly jumped by surprise. Finally a lead! It was Billy Wiggins who told him in his typical drawl that the detective was to meet him and a fellow drug dealer who knew a Gerald Summer at a nearby street corner. The detective hurried to walk to the meeting point as quickly as possible and was soon drenched in sweat as he arrived there.

The other dealer looked completely inconspicuous. He could have passed for a middle-aged bank accountant. He had a healthy complexion, wore utterly average clothes and had such a nondescript face that he would be instantly forgotten by any passer-by. He was the exact opposite of Billy who looked like the very prototype of a drug dealer.

The men knew each other on a professional basis and each worked on a different patch of London so that there was no reason for animosity between them. Billy introduced Sherlock and Steven to each other, confirmed that it was safe to talk to the detective and reminded Steven to address him as Shezza and then Billy just ambled off because he had “important business to attend to“.

Steven had not much to tell. He claimed that he knew a Gerald Summer because he had sold heroin to him over the last seven months. Gerald was working as an escort for a low-key agency named “Heavensent“ and had not been streetwalking. Yet he still had apparently been always short of money. He could only afford small amounts of cheaper blends of heroin which he seemed to use on a daily basis.

Steven described Gerald as thin, tall and brown-haired with no special features he could remember and did not know where he lived. There was no telephone number because Gerald always came to Steven´s flat for buying. One time he had mentioned to try and get clean via a drug trial but Steven had not really listened to his rambling. That had to have been the CLEEN trial obviously.

The interesting part of Steven´s tale was that when the dealer had last seen Gerald about eight weeks ago he had waggled a large bundle of banknotes in Steven´s face and bought a three month´s supply of the purest heroin currently available. Since then Steven had heard nothing of Gerald.

Sherlock thanked the dealer for sharing the information, reassured him once more that he would tell nobody of their encounter and firmly declined an offer of a free hit of Chinawhite “just to get the taste“ when the dealer pointed at the colourful and plainly visible track marks on his arms. Sherlock was clean and expected to stay so.

It would have been the wrong substance anyway.

Sherlock spent the night at the park, returned to the den at four in the morning and went for another futile searching bout on the internet for any kind of helpful information. The homepage of Gerald´s former agency had been completely unhelpful. He had not slept or eaten and only remembered to drink water because a concerned looking Billy threw a plastic water bottle at his head around midday with a glare.

"Can´t hav ya pass out here. Bad for bus´ness!" He snarled gruffly.

When finally the eagerly awaited message came Sherlock was just a minute away from climbing the walls, shoot someone (no, he had no gun at hand), strangle his new inanely babbling next-mattress-smackhead-neighbour, blow up something or, which bothered him the most, ask Billy for a tiny amount of the _real_ solution to his ever increasing boredom and disquiet.

Sherlock longed for the cool yet so nicely warm rush in his veins and the calming effects it had on his brain. The closeness to the other addicts in the den that were soaring high on all kinds of chemically induced bliss as well as the fact that Billy knew exactly what he liked and would only have the best for him did not make his waning resistance any stronger.

But it would be a real shame to cave in after such a long time without… but what difference would one hit make? Just one? A small one, after all? Just to keep going on the case without suffering his brain dissolving? Sherlock´s arm already itched in frightful yet longing anticipation for being punctured by the smooth needle when thankfully a text from Hugh´s mobile arrived.

**meet master 3pm at our hotel U there?**

Sherlock´s mind cramped at the missing punctuation and the crude wording. It was bad enough that people just couldn´t think. Why couldn´t people just text as well?

**I will be there. Text me immediately if anything changes or happens otherwise! SH**

Sherlock realized that he had not much time to get on schedule to the transient hotel in the alley where he first met John.

_My beautiful, fierce army doctor. My Captain deep-blue-eyes Watson. Er, why is it “my“? Dammit, Sherlock, just focus you stupid idiot. This is you having sentiments for another human… you´re not supposed to have those. Pure brain and such. Have to get to Hugh now. Bugger!_

He managed to hail a cab by waving banknotes at the driver from the kerb again and told the cabbie the address. The man gave him a very suspicious glare, ogled his seedy clothing and sweat streaked face with squinted eyes and demanded to be handed the cash in advance. Sherlock glared back, showed him his best manic grin, shoved an extra five pounds into his lap and commanded him to shut up and just drive.

He was so fed up with being Shezza.

While driving to his destination Sherlock went into his mind palace to think about the case.

_Missy dead, Cocky and Richie missing and most probably dead as well. I don´t believe Hugh is the culprit. So. This Gerald has to be the one that the murderer is really after. The hooker had definitely pulled some trick and got rich in an instant. It must be something illegal or how could a permanently broke drug addict suddenly afford a huge amount of purest heroin? He must have done something which aggravated another one so much that he (or she??) sought out possible culprits knowing that they had to be prostitutes and addicts._

_He also had to know about the offender being in the drug trial at Silverblack´s. Master had had the business card in his wallet._

_A crime which enraged someone enough to not care about collateral damage. A crime to induce a strong wish for taking revenge, for punishing and torturing the felon. A crime of passion, obviously. But who was it? The original victim? A relative, close friend or lover of the victim trying to avenge the person Gerald betrayed? Wronged? Hurt? All of it?_

_Gerald could have gained some forbidden knowledge of someone in his line of work. And blackmailed this person? That would be the most logical explanation for his sudden wealth. He ruined someone and had to suffer and die now for that crime? Maybe the original victim died, too?_

Sherlock made a mental note to ponder more on the supposed crime Gerald had committed which definitely involved strong sentiments. Sherlock scoffed. Sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side. He would not fall for such mundane feelings. Sentiment made one weak. Vulnerable. Illogical. Stupid. _Human_.

_But I feel… things… for John on the other hand… things that make me warm inside and things that cause my belly to tingle… Ah, fuck it!_

_Deeper down it tingles as well. Now´s just not the time for… feeling!_

The cab came to a sudden stop and tore Sherlock out of his reflectiveness. He quickly got out, checked his mobile for the time and was glad that it was still eleven minutes to three. He hid in the same entrance as the time he met John and texted Hugh that he was waiting at the hotel.

Hugh arrived six minutes later on foot and leant lazily against the wall of the hotel smoking a cigarette. He looked quite relaxed. Sherlock was sure that he did shoot up earlier judging by the slightly dazed look in his eyes. Sherlock showed himself quickly before he went into hiding in the shadow again. And it was not a second too early because right then a black car with tinted windows turned into the narrow back-alley. It reminded him of the cars that Mycroft´s minions always used and the detective had the sudden gut-wrenching inspiration of his governmental, meaning governing and mental, brother to use a prostitute.

_Urgh!_

Shaking himself in disgust Sherlock watched to his great shock as Hugh got into the backseat of the car and drove away.

_Shit! Shit! Shit! Why don´t they use the hotel? I thought they would get off there again… Stupid! Stupid! He takes Hugh to some deserted place to question him without getting interfered. Fuck! Have to find another cab immediately!_

Sherlock ran after the car to the main road all the while looking frantically for a cab. But he was out of his luck. For once no cab was in sight and he paced the pavement in utter anxiety to lose track of Hugh and Hugh to lose his life because Sherlock was unable to hail a _fucking cab_. He texted Hugh.

**No cab! Where are you going? SH**

**Dunno, ask master**

**…**

**wont say private place he say**

_No. No! NO! NONONO!_

This was not as it was supposed to work out. Sherlock had planned to sneak up behind Hugh into the hotel and eavesdrop on them. Maybe barge in and subdue Master. He did not plan on leaving Hugh alone in the hands of a maniacal killer for an unknown amount of time.

Why was there no cab? He could always hail one even if out of thin air apparently when he needed it so why not now? It always worked! Like a magic trick.

_Buggering fuck! I´ll hot-wire a car instead!_

Car theft was just another ability Sherlock had learned from Sailor. He looked around and found a small and easy to steal Vauxhall parked at the kerb in an atrocious green colour. Still no cab in sight. Also no human being in sight. Sherlock´s skills had gotten a bit rusty but he managed to hijack the ugly car without further ado and drove into the direction where the black car had vanished earlier. He had lost seven minutes in his pursuit of Hugh until now.

**Acquired a car. Where are you? SH**

**driving towards docklands-eastend**

Sherlock cursed and turned the stolen car around. Since he only had a vague direction it was very difficult to choose the right streets. Sherlock remained on the main roads and headed east. He desperately hoped that Hugh would give him an accurate direction soon. Otherwise he would have to beg Mycroft for tracking Hugh´s mobile and he only thought of using the British Government as a last resort. Also it would take time. And he would never hear the end of it. Mycroft´s voice echoed through the mind palace:

_How could you have been so dense and not think about Hugh getting into a car? Standing like an idiot in an unsavoury part of London clad as a homeless junkie and wondering why you could not acquire a cab promptly? But then you were always the slow one, were you not, little brother mine?_

Sherlock drove into a large parking lot and texted manically.

**What do you see? Street names, places, buildings, shops? I cannot follow you on nothing. You must give me something! SH**

Sherlock had to wait for another agonizingly long four minutes before the liberating answer.

**turned into chequers lane driving along**

**On my way. SH**

Finally. Sherlock revved the engine and sped towards Dagenham. He had lost thirteen minutes to Hugh now.

**saw a skip hire company**

The traffic was awfully thick. All the traffic lights seemed determined to slow Sherlock down. All the cars seemed to block his way deliberately. All the pedestrians seemed to be exceptionally slow while crossing the street. There even was a damned _tractor_ slowing the traffic down to a mere crawl!

**we park now have to get outtttttttttttttttttttttt**

_Oh nonononono!_

**What happened? SH**

**Hugh? SH**

**Hugh!! SH**

Hugh did not reply. Sherlock was twenty minutes behind when he drove into Chequers Lane. 25 minutes as he passed by the skip company. He slowed down and looked for the black car whose number he had memorized. He would ask DI Lestrade later to track the owner.

He was 33 minutes behind when he finally spotted the car parked sideways at the entrance to a junkyard. He hid his stolen car around a corner and ran back to find Hugh´s mobile lying on the ground two steps away of the boot. The display was shattered because someone had stomped it strongly into the gravel. 35 minutes now.

Sherlock spotted scuff marks along the gravel and dirt the driveway into the junkyard consisted of and followed them easily. The abductor must have subdued Hugh who could not walk properly anymore but had to be supported and more like dragged away.

His assumption was confirmed when he found a discarded one-way syringe which had been filled with a muscle-relaxing drug. A quickly working but not very long lasting chemical meaning that Hugh´s abductor wanted him impassive but not permanently out. Which again meant he wanted to be able to properly incapacitate his victim but be able to question (and torture) him later being fully conscious of the pain.

The yard was deserted. A small flat office building stood at the left behind the open entrance door in the fence and was secured with a big padlock. A sign showed working hours had ended at two this Friday afternoon. It was a quarter to four now.

Sherlock looked around and saw lots of cars in different states of disassembly and mountains of junk metal separated by type. Thousands of places to hide. But only one broad way wound through the metallic labyrinth and he found another shoeprint of Hugh´s along this way. In the very back of the junkyard was another small building like a warehouse with two small blackened windows at the long side.

Sherlock heard a high-pitched scream. 40 minutes now. At least Hugh was still alive. He had to get him out immediately. Sherlock had promised to keep him save and he would.

Nevertheless the detective had to know what was going on in the large shed. How many people were in there? What state was Hugh in? What else was in the building? Was Master armed? He could not just barge in like the sodding cavalry. Also he had to make sure that his face was hidden in case Master and whoever else was there escaped. Sherlock would be unable to stay undercover and solve this case if he was seen.

He silently crept closer to one of the blackened windows. The paint had been spread amateurishly onto the glass pane and was peeling away along the lower corner. Sherlock carefully peeked inside and was delighted to find the interior well-lit by large neon tubes. The shed was mostly empty, there were only several big crates lining the walls. They would provide good cover when Sherlock would be sneaking inside.

Hugh was sitting in the middle of the large space on a steel chair. His wrists, ankles and chest were tied with rope to it. His face was bloody and beaten, dark bruises showed on his skin. His shirt had been cut to ribbons and Master was right now slashing another deep cut on Hugh´s bleeding pectoral with a scalpel. Hugh screamed again in utter pain.

Sherlock´s brain was frantically going through his options for rescuing Hugh as safely and quickly as possible. He needed something to cover his face and he needed a weapon. There had been a discarded face shield used for welding in a rubbish heap piled up near the front door to the shed. It would be enough to render his face unrecognizable even if it would be hindering Sherlock when he had to fight with Master. Anyway it was the only possibility for a disguise quickly available, so Sherlock put it on.

He also saw a piece of exhaust pipe in the metal stack behind him. It was about four feet long and showed several spots of rust but seemed sturdy enough to properly bash someone´s head in. Sherlock knew how to wield a staff weapon due to his long time practicing the martial art of Bartitsu.

Thus equipped Sherlock crept to the front door which was closed but unlocked and luckily the door handle was easy going and it swung open without a sound. Master was with his back to the entrance shouting angrily at Hugh to tell him who had made the photos and Hugh was occupied with screaming that he did not know anything and please stop cutting him.

_What, photos? Ah, blackmail, obviously! Like I thought._

Lithe and nimble, Sherlock sneaked through the door, closing it silently and hid beneath the first stack of mouldy smelling crates. He planned to creep up unseen behind Master and knock him out with the pipe. It was working out well with getting closer using the crates for cover until Sherlock was just five feet away. Master was still facing Hugh whom he had punched two times onto the bleeding cuts on his pectoral and his victim seemed to have passed out momentarily due to the intense pain. Master was panting loudly and cursing the “fucking feeble faggot“ for falling unconscious that soon. It was the best opportunity to subdue Master. It had to be now or never. Determined, Sherlock moved forward to attack.

The gods of fate were not on Sherlock´s side this time.

As the detective was just about to strike Master´s head, holding the pipe high above his own with both hands, the topmost part of the metal gave way, succumbing to the rust. It fell down and only missed Sherlock´s head by inches but clattered noisily to the ground. Master flinched and spun around to face the source of the sudden sound. Sherlock who had already started to strike downwards with the pipe found himself startled and suddenly too far away to reach Master with the substantially shortened weapon.

Sherlock´s strike missed Master´s head and his body for several inches. Master hissed and jumped back by instinct while Sherlock surged forward in an attempt to place a thrust with the jagged end of the pipe at the other´s chest but the abductor shuffled nimbly towards his right side having recovered quickly from the surprising attack. He focused on Sherlock who took a second to ponder how to best overpower Master now and also had to adjust the face shield which had gotten a bit out of place.

_Stupid thing. Should have known it´s no good for fighting but I still need the disguise._

The two men circled around each other for several strained steps. Sherlock tried to steer Master away from Hugh and suddenly jumped forward when he saw an opening and was able to place a solid strike towards the other´s left collarbone. The detective was satisfied to hear the cracking noise of bone being badly bruised and hopefully broken and Master´s agonized scream confirmed his achievement.

_Yes! Got you, you wanker!_

Then the gods of fate remembered that they were not supposed to be on Sherlock´s side this day.

Pain distorted Master´s face and it morphed into a vicious mask full of hatred as he reached behind his back with his still functioning right hand to pull out a gun which had been hidden under his loose jacket. The gun was pointed at Sherlock´s stomach who was only two feet away from the muzzle. Both men froze and time seemed to come to an abrupt halt. Only the sounds of panting could be heard.

_Shitshitshit! If he fires I´ll suffer at least a severe wound if not a fatal one. Fuck! Never thought of him having a gun. Stupid again! Might be my last slip though…_

Time had transmuted into something like a viscous amorphous mass that was dripping sluggishly from an ethereal spoon.

Sherlock saw the trigger finger contracting in slow motion and he took a step backward, reduced to his basic instincts to get away from imminent death. If he had had some brain capacity left he would have scolded himself of such an utter meaningless move. This close nothing could be done to avoid being hit by a bullet in the abdomen. A part of his transport that sported a ridiculous amount of vital organs and large blood vessels which would at least incapacitate him enough for Master to finish him off with a second shot.

_I want to live! I want to have my brave soldier John around protecting me with his gun. That would not have happened if I wasn´t alone. I want to see him again. I don´t want to die now! I want more time!_

But the gods of fate were fickle beings most of the time.

The subliminal step backwards that Sherlock had taken brought his right foot right on top of the piece of rusty exhaust pipe that had broken off earlier and was now lying forgotten on the ground. Since it was round it rolled away under the pressure of the detective´s shoe. Sherlock felt his body weight tilt abruptly backwards as he slipped and fell with a mumbled shout straight onto his back causing his left leg to flail upwards while he instinctively let go of the pipe and used his arms to cushion the impact of his fall like he had learned in his martial arts lessons ages ago. Apart from being momentarily stunned and having to compute why he was suddenly on the floor, Sherlock was still alive.

Yet, the result of the fall was unsuspected by both men.

First, the shot which would have hit Sherlock squarely in the stomach missed and only nicked the calf of his leg in a grazing shot. Which was very lucky.

Second, Sherlock´s foot that had involuntarily lashed out high into the air had hit Master´s hand and kicked the gun out of it. Which was ridiculously lucky.

It was such a freak move that it may have escaped out of a below-average Hollywood action movie. Too insane to happen in the real world. But it did. Happen. Anyway. Because the gods of fate had a silly day today.

Master was so surprised by the missed shot and the gun flying high above his head and hitting one of the nearby crates that he was distracted long enough for Sherlock to place a vicious kick with his right foot against the outside of his would-be murderer´s knee. The very satisfying plopping sound of a ripping ligament brought an insane smile onto Sherlock´s face which was miraculously still hidden behind the face shield.

Master cried out in anguish and dropped to the ground because his knee gave way. Sherlock became suddenly aware of the searing hot pain in his left calf and the spot of bright red blood already soaking his jeans. He ignored the pain and scrambled to his feet to retrieve the gun from between the crates where it had landed but Master got a hold of Sherlock´s foot and caused the detective to stumble and fall down again. The face shield slipped to the side and poked Sherlock in the throat.

This pain somehow aggravated Sherlock so much that he roared wildly in frustration, tore the _fucking_ _thing_ off and swung it behind himself while turning his torso as much as possible in his current position. He hit Master straight onto the nose with the pointed edge of the shield and broke it. Both - the nose _and_ the shield.

This definitely proved that the gods of fate had a truly deranged sort of humour.

Master fainted instantly and crumbled down into a heap. Sherlock gasped for breath. He freed his foot out of Master´s clenched hand, scrambled to his feet again and kicked his opponent for good measure into the ribs. With his injured leg.

_There, take that. Arsehole. Fuck, this hurts!_

Sherlock secured the gun before limping to Hugh who was still out on the chair. He had to get the hooker out of here. But he also had to arrest Master. Difficult decision to make.

_So. First check if Hugh is mostly O.K. Then tie up Master. Then free Hugh. Then call an ambulance and D.I. Lestrade. Then bandage my calf._

He quickly glanced down at the ever growing spot of blood on his left leg. He could feel the pulsing of the wound as each beat of his heart brought forth another painful gush of his vital liquid. It was a bit not good. Maybe he should try to quench the bleeding first? What if he fainted due to blood loss?

_That would be sort of a problem if my stupid transport succumbs to hypovolemic shock!_

The sound of a door falling closed ended Sherlock´s musing abruptly. He angled his head and realized that the previously prone body of Master had vanished. He blinked frantically.

_Shit, Shit, Shit! Master crawled away! Stupid transport distracting me to lose sight of the culprit. Have to get out of here now immediately! With Hugh! What if Master returns with backup? We´d both be fucked then._

The next minutes went by in a frenzied haste.

Sherlock untied Hugh, checked him quickly for _life threatening_ injuries (there were none), got him back to being at least half-conscious by continually calling out his name and stating his own and that he was safe now and clapping his cheek. He hoisted Hugh up to stand swaying on his feet and supported him while dragging him out of the shed. Master was nowhere to be seen but they had to get to Sherlock´s stolen car as fast as possible.

It was a tedious endeavour. Hugh was clinging to Sherlock hindering his already injured leg carrying the weight of one and a half adults as they haphazardly found their way towards the green Vauxhall. Sherlock shoved Hugh unceremoniously onto the co-driver´s seat, revved the engine and simply drove away to park the car several streets down in the deserted backyard of a car mechanic shop now closed for the weekend. Master´s car was nowhere to be seen.

Hugh had regained most of his consciousness and was rambling frantically. He cursed Sherlock for lying to him about being safe and having his back and looking out for him while the detective tried to reason with the enraged rent boy that he never meant this to happen and that the lack of a cab was the cause for why things went the way they did and then Hugh´s fist connected with Sherlock´s eye.

The unexpected punch threw both men out of their respective arguing and resulted in a glaring contest which was broken by Hugh as he started to shake uncontrollably due to the late onset of shock. Sherlock´s brain reset itself and after pawing at his already swelling eye he went to do the most urgent thing, namely to grasp the first-aid kit of the car and he started to tend to Hugh´s cuts on the chest.

The hooker calmed down and in reverse helped Sherlock to dress the sluggishly bleeding gunshot wound on his calf. He pressed a whole gauze bandage firmly on it with trembling fingers while Sherlock wrapped multiple layers of gauze around to keep it in place. At least the blood did not soak the dressing immediately but the bleeding did not stop completely.

While they worked Sherlock inquired Hugh about what Master had wanted, said and done and why he had asked about photos and what had happened anyway. Hugh really had not much to tell but in the end it amounted to several facts.

Master had taken Hugh by surprise and injected him with something that made his muscles limp but left his brain mostly aware. He was dragged to the shed, tied up and interrogated.

Master had insulted and cursed Hugh personally as well as drug addicts and prostitutes on the whole. He had cut, beaten and punched Hugh as punishment for his “wicked ways“.

Master had continually asked Hugh if he had made the “fuck photos“ as he called them to blackmail Charles. He did not explain who that should be, assuming Hugh would know.

Master had interrogated Hugh on the whereabouts of Gerald whom Hugh still did not know and his captor had been severely pissed off by this.

Hugh had asserted multiple times he had no inkling of what Master wanted to know at all and after a short time he had been convinced about that. Which resulted in Master being utterly frustrated and starting to torture Hugh in earnest with slicing up his pectorals to “at least have some fun“ and “rid the world of filthy lying junkie whores“.

Hugh had been convinced that he would die in the shed after Master had vented his wrath and would just kill him.

After the men had finished bandaging each other which proved to be difficult in the close quarters of the car, Hugh asked Sherlock to drive him to a derelict house. Hugh wanted to go into hiding as long as the madman was roaming free. He would have liked to leave London but he had no money and knew no place where he could stay for a while. Also, he had to take care of his chemical problem because he would go into withdrawal soon.

Sherlock´s calf was throbbing insanely but he could ignore the hurting limb enough to be able to drive Hugh to a bolt-hole where the hooker thought he would be safe to hide for a couple of days. As long as no one saw Hugh entering the run-down house he would stay in the attic where he had stored food, water and his other meagre worldly belongings. So far he had told nobody of the place where he lived when not lingering in Billy´s drug den so Sherlock assumed it would be secure for several days. He strongly urged Hugh to acquire a new mobile and promised he would bring him another one with a prepaid card the next day to be able to stay in touch with the detective.

Of course, it was risky to use the stolen car again as it could very well have been reported as missing by now but it would be utterly moronic to ride a cab regarding the state both men were in. One severely beaten up and one clearly still drugged, in tattered and bloodied clothes. It would be like an invitation for any cabbie to report them to the police. No. Sherlock would drop Hugh off a corner away from his hideout and then get rid of the suspicious car.

Sherlock knew enough of wounds to realize while driving carefully that his calf had to be sutured but sadly he did not know how to do this himself properly. Even if he had the necessary equipment at his flat which he did not. The bleeding would not stop in the near future and he would lose slowly more and more blood. He obviously could not go to an A&E in a hospital because they were obliged to report any gunshot wounds to the police.

He did not want Scotland Yard and Gulliver Lestrade to be involved. He was close to solving the case, he felt it like a tickling in his very bones. The Yard would only spoil his efforts and chase the murderer away.

No.

But.

Still.

Well.

He knew where a capable and trustworthy doctor lived, did he not? Even more so a doctor who was accustomed to bullet wounds and dealing with these outside the means of a hospital. The best thing about the whole affair was that Sherlock now had an absolutely valid reason to see Doctor Watson again much earlier than previously assumed. Maybe he should feel grateful to his would-be shooter? But that would be a tad too much, would it not?

Anyway, the detective left the car a few roads away from John´s street. He cleared it of any fingerprints and made sure that he left no blood. He even put a twenty pound banknote in the glove box and put a sticky label he found there on it with the deliberately wrong spelled words “sorry and thanx for yer ride“.

It was nearly five in the afternoon when Sherlock arrived limping and in considerate pain at the front door to the block of flats that visibly contained very substandard bedsits.

_What a depressing place! No wonder that John would commit suicide if he had to live in such a place and could not get a job to afford a better flat. On the other hand I have a spare bedroom I don´t use. John could move in. Share the flat with me. But it would be too early to propose that to him? He believes I´m a destitute junkie. Might be a bit awkward. Don´t want to scare him away. Yet. Maybe ask him after he stitched me up? He would not turn me down if I need help? Hopefully. But then he is a decent person. Altruistic. Caring. Not like me. Cute blonde hair as well. And such a nice arse._

The lock on the door to John´s bedsit was ridiculously easy to pick. Sherlock had searched the calendar in the doctor´s mobile after he had nicked it and was sure John would be home soon because today´s date with his therapist ended at six.

Sherlock was exhausted, tired and felt miserable. He sat down on John´s bed and waited impatiently for the door to open. His eyes became heavy, his head drooped and his muscles went slack. He fell asleep where he sat with his back slumped against the wall behind the single bed.

He dreamt of kind ocean blue eyes looking deep down into his own. Soft fingers curling in his hair. Plush lips on his.


	10. DOCTOR

When you were standing on the wake of devastation

When you were waiting on the edge of the unknown

And with the cataclysm raining down,

Inside´s crying “Save me now“

You were there impossibly alone

Iridescent, Linkin Park

John had gone to another appointment with his therapist that afternoon. Finally he could tell Ella something _new_.

“Something has happened to me. Something good! Two days ago I met someone who was fascinating and intriguing and whom I´d really like to meet again.“

Of course, John sugarcoated the way he had met Shezza. No need to tell your therapist about nearly trying to blast one´s brains out. With an illegal gun. A bit not good, that.

“I was stepping out of the pub to get some fresh air and there he was, smoking.“

_There he was about to shoot up cocaine…_

John also omitted carefully to mention the whole junkie issue.

“He offered me a cigarette.“

_In fact I have been offered a dubious cocaine syringe but better not mention that as well._

“We talked and we laughed. I can´t remember when I had laughed the last time. It´s the first time I was feeling happy and alive since my injury in Afghanistan.“ At least that was the plain fucking truth.

They agreed that John would write down his encounter with Shezza in his personal blog and record all of John´s feelings coming with it.

“Yes, we exchanged telephone numbers and we will call each other to meet again.“

_OK, we exchanged my wallet, skilfull pickpocket that Shezza is. I don´t know where he holes up since he´s homeless but at least he knows where to find me. I really do hope he wants to contact me again. I really do hope we will meet again. He made me feel so alive even if I felt the urge to punch and strangle him at the same time._

_I never met someone with such an aggravating personality and yet under all the grime covering him he seemed to be quite handsome. And sadly severely addicted. But maybe there is a way that he would stop using? Ah, what a nice daydream…but still…_

After the session with Ella John felt like having a short stroll in the nearby park. The weather was sunny and John was in no mood to get back to his miserable bedsit so soon. The short stroll turned out to become a long walk and he even sat down on a bench just watching the people passing by. John enjoyed the normalcy of the serene surroundings. He relaxed.

Even his leg was fine.

John woke up as a large fly kept buzzing around his ear. He blinked and became aware that he actually had fallen asleep in the park. He had never fallen asleep in a park before. He had never even fallen asleep in his own bed so easily before. The sun was standing very low and the park was deserted by now. It was well past eight PM.

John got up stiffly. His shoulder hurt from the awkward hunching position on the bench he had slipped into while dosing off and his leg was hurting horribly. He grabbed his walking cane, cursed under his breath and limped slowly back home.

As John took out the keys of his jacket to unlock the door to his bedsit his leg was hurting like hell. He only thought about lying down as quickly as possible and massage the damn limb so that he wasn´t very surprised finding his door not to be locked. He surely must have forgotten to lock it on his way to Ella being sort of excited that finally he had something, or rather _someone_ , he wanted to talk about with her.

John opened the door and entered his bedsit. It was dark inside and it smelled _wrong_. He reached for the light switch and suddenly recognized what the stench was. It was the smell of decomposition, of rotting flesh. Dust was dancing slowly in the gloom at the entrance and a faint rustle of cloth and shuffling of feet emerged from where his bed was located.

The next second John was being catapulted back to Afghanistan. Back into the nameless scattering of abandoned huts in the middle of nowhere on the day of his last patrol. John felt the lessening heat of the desert, saw the sand gleaming in the setting sun, dust filtering through the light and felt the heavy combat gear on his body. They were about to check one of the little huts, the only one that still had a roof on its top. There had been several reports of gunfire around here in the afternoon and civilians possibly wounded, so his task force was moving very careful, expecting hostile fire every second. They all had their assault rifles ready as John entered the building.

Inside was carnage. Whoever was responsible for the bloodbath had done a very thorough job. Several men, women and even two small girls had been viciously killed. Not with neat sniper shots but through messy heavy gunfire. The shredded bodies were piled randomly over one another where they had fallen down as the people had been lined up against the wall and executed.

With blood and gore everywhere, flies buzzing around in the dancing dust, feeding on the human remains and the horrible stench of decaying bodies John was caught unaware as he turned around to get out of the hut as all hell broke loose.

They were suddenly under heavy fire, soldiers got wounded and John tried as much as he could to secure his injured mates. Time distorted into a blur, fast and slow moving at the same time, his vision narrowed to the spot before him on the wounds of his friends. Sometime later John caught a bullet in his shoulder and all went black.

The flashback was extremely intense and all John knew was that he had to reach his gun to defend himself and his mates from the attackers. He had to save them all thinking he was still inside the hut as an assailant shuffled and moved towards him to kill. With a furious yell John lunged forward towards his desk, opened the drawer frantically, got his gun out, aimed and shot three times in quick succession at his attacker. The gun clicked hollow while shooting.

John breathed heavily, the gun sounded _wrong_ and as he heard a high-pitched cry of surprise his vision suddenly cleared as fast as it had become clouded before and he was thrown violently back into reality.

John was standing at his desk, panting hard, one hand on the light switch and the other holding his gun still pointing at the man who stood in front of his bed. The man who was staring at him wide-eyed and open-mouthed in shock and disbelief, for once in his life utterly devoid of any words.

“Oh my God, oh my God. Are you hurt? Jesus!“ John finally recognized his new junkie acquaintance.

The doctor panicked and let the gun fall out of his hands. All the blood vanished from his face and it became a ghostly white colour. His body went rigid while his heart beat in a frantic pace. John brought his hands up and covered his face, expecting to hear Shezza´s body collapsing onto the ground any second.

_I killed him, I killed him, I killed him, Oh God, I killed him, I killed…_

The following silence seemed to drag on forever, slow-moving and endlessly arduous seconds.

“You shot me, three times.“ Shezza finally stated drily and his voice was a bit jittery. He blinked in rapid succession as his brain had to process what it had just experienced. He snorted.

“Judging by the angles you held your weapon each bullet to my head, chest and abdomen would have been fatal. You´re a crack shot! I´m quite impressed!“

“Shit, fuck, are you hurt? Shezza! God no!“ John took the hands off his face staring blankly at the other man. There was no sign of blood on his chest.

_This can´t be true. I shot him. He´s dead, he must be dead._

“So did you have a flashback or are you shooting all your visitors?“ Shezza remarked flatly. “No wonder you don´t have friends.“

John´s stupor turned into red hot anger all of a sudden, so he yelled: “Are you raving mad to assault me in the dark like that? You know I have a gun _and_ PTSD. And you´re surprised to be shot at? What did you expect?“

John´s body began to shake from the panic attack he´d suffered or maybe from the anger, too. He took several deep breaths before managing to lift the gun up from the ground and check it. The magazine was empty. John shoved it back into the desk´s drawer, inhaling hard ragged breaths. His hand clenched into a fist.

“No, I´m not mad even if that´s what people usually think. I removed the bullets earlier as you should have realized by now.“ Shezza smirked lopsidedly but he nevertheless twitched nervously.

“Well, yes. But you´re such a bloody idiot anyway“, John grunted, “I nearly killed you!“

Shezza´s grin just widened: “You failed miserably at killing _someone_ again.“

“Shezza?“ John asked incredulously as the shock slowly dissipated. He managed to calm down a bit more. “How the fuck did you get into my flat?“

“I broke in. Obviously. Your front door lock is not really Fort Knox. Took me only sixteen seconds to pick. I recommend sincerely you replace it with a more elaborate one.“

John was getting furious again. He shook his head in utter disbelief.

_This stupid bastard breaks into my flat, scares the living shit out of me, lets himself get shot with three deadly bullets (well would be deadly if there had been any in my gun) and above all he has the audacity to patronise me and lecture me on locks? Smirking at me like that?_

John slowly approached Shezza and looked straight into his eyes. The pale blue grey irises were only narrow slits as he continued to scan John´s face with a piercingly scrutinizing stare that completely belied the drug-addled brain of an addict.

John glared at Shezza with a murderous expression. Then without any premonition he sucker punched him flat onto his left jaw. Hard enough to hurt but not to severely injure. Shezza let out a short pained gasp, staggered a step back and as he got kicked in the back of his knees from the side of John´s bed he bumped ungracefully onto his behind. He sat on the bed, examining his jaw with a long-fingered hand and looked up at John with a hurt and indignant expression on his face.

“I told you Shezza, I´ll manage to punch you in the face sometime. Didn´t assume it would happen so quickly but you had it coming“, John gnashed. He looked down onto the other man surveying him more thoroughly.

_He is even filthier than last time we met. His face is worn, ashen and sweaty and there´s blood on his chin. Sports a spectacularly black and blue shiner as well. He looks like shite and smells like a heap of it. He seems exhausted, breathes shallow and is trembling. He won´t simply collapse now, will he? Is he in withdrawal?_

A minute of uncomfortable silence passed. Ocean blue eyes staring into pale blue grey ones.

“My name´s Sherlock, actually“, he stated coolly in his deep resonating voice and turned his head to look away from John, ashamed.

Sherlock was slightly shaking now, feeling dizzy and he let himself slump back on John´s bed to rest against the wall behind him.

“You are not expecting me to believe this one, are you? Why are you offering me such ridiculous names all the time? Will it be Shirley next?“ John huffed impatiently, annoyed and secretly still scared of himself and feeling guilty for his violent reaction.

_But punching him had actually felt good… he deserved it, the prick!_

Sherlock pouted and suddenly turned sulky. He sniffed and shot back: “Not everyone could be blessed with such an exquisitely uncommon name such as _John_!“

John stared back for a while _._

 _Oh! Have I unintentionally insulted him? But, well,_ Sherlock _, how weird is that? And how can a grown-up man pull a face like a miffed four year old child? Also, I have an uncommon second name. Which I´ll never tell him._

Sherlock still glared at John, the latter feeling more and more guilty for having mocked his counterpart´s name. He gave in.

“OK. I´m sorry. _Sherlock_. I did not mean to insult you“, John apologized and he meant it.

Sherlock hummed and nodded slightly. Apology accepted.

“We never introduced ourselves properly. I´m Dr John Hamish Watson, nice to meet you“, John resorted to typical British politeness and offered his hand.

_Oops. So much for not telling…_

Sherlock hesitated a second before giving John a firm handshake.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Oh, don´t give me that look again! This is my real name.“ He rolled his bright eyes.

“So what are you here for? Why did you break into my flat? Searching money for your next hit?“

John truly hoped that Sherlock had another reason, otherwise he would be very disappointed.

_I can´t, no I will not believe that he is only a sleazy thief. But he is trembling again and his face is pallid and sweaty. Withdrawal symptoms? Or is he still shocked from me shooting and punching him?_

“Would you give me any for buying?“

“No, of course not!“

“Never mind. I needed your help. In fact I still do.“ He tried his best to sound honest and convincing.

“Needed something to eat, a shower and a warm dry place to sleep? Hm?“ John eyed him warily.

“Nope. I can do all of that in my own flat. It´s much nicer than yours by the way.“ He sneered slightly.

John was stumped by this matter-of-factly given but again unbelievable answer.

_So he is not a junkie and is not homeless and owns a nice flat as well? Bollocks! Impossible insolent idiot!_

“Tell me the truth or I´ll kick your arse out of the door“, John threatened.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again.

“No need to get rude. I need your help as a doctor and since I could go nowhere else I decided to pick the lock of your door and wait inside until you returned home. You took an awful long time walking around in the nearby park judging by the leaves clinging to your shoes and by the smell of hydrangeas and azaleas that grow there emanating from you. So you stalled coming back home from your meeting with your therapist and I got so terribly bored waiting here for you that I dozed off on your bed. You woke me as you opened the door, I stood up expecting to be welcomed but instead you shot me.“ Sherlock explained in rapid-fire mode and pouted.

All John could do was blink incredulously: “What exactly should Dr. Watson help you with? _“_

_I´ve never heard anyone talking that quickly and intelligible at the same time without having to breathe._

“I got shot.“

“Yes, by me. With three non-existent fatal bullets. We´ve already been through this“, John was getting impatient, his ire rising hot again, “answer me or I will put the bullets back and have another go at shooting you.“

“Do you always resolve to threatening, punching or shooting people if you´re angry with them?“ Sherlock asked scathingly. “You´re a rather violent person and have quite a temper.“

John simply smiled evilly down at Sherlock.

With a deep sigh but in a more docile voice Sherlock deigned to enlighten John.

“You were the second person to shoot at me today. Luckily the first one was not such a crack shot and since I was able to disarm him his bullet only grated my calf. Although I must say that I managed a good blow to his collarbone before. Anyway, I couldn´t stop the bleeding myself and obviously couldn´t go to a hospital because it is a gunshot wound. I don´t want to be reported to the police. It´s been like this for a couple of hours now.“

Sherlock gingerly lifted his left leg to pull the ripped and bloodied jeans upwards his calf and couldn´t suppress a small wince of pain. Below was a blood soaked mass of gauze bandages.

John nearly toppled over at the sight.

 _That is ridiculous. He must have been in pain and slowly bleeding for… hours… really? And he just does witty conversation with me?_ _Instead of… and on top of that I punched him… Oh fuck!_

“Why didn´t you tell me right away? Pull the bandages off while I get the first aid kit. You are such an insane git!“

John hurried to the bathroom to fetch what he needed for stitching up. In the meantime Sherlock removed the gauze and a wide and jagged wound appeared.

John tended to Sherlock´s calf. It was indeed just a grazing shot but unfortunately the bullet had hit a smaller blood vessel directly below the skin so that it had bled very much. John needed nine stitches to close the wound. Sherlock bit his teeth and held still. After the doctor had put on the final dressing he gave Sherlock some painkillers and breathed out a sigh of relief.

“You really have to stop scaring the living shit out of me each time we meet!“ John complained.

Sherlock grinned weakly and relaxed. Leaning his back against the wall of John´s bed again he muttered an exhausted “Thank you.“

“You´re welcome. But tell me, where did you get that? Had a dispute with your local dealer?“

John still was not convinced that Sherlock was not a drug addict so he pushed the issue again.

“I told you before I am not using anymore“, Sherlock sniffed, “the bullet was an accident.“

“I don´t believe that, too. But I guess you won´t tell me the truth anyway.“

Looking inquiringly at the self-proclaimed ex-addict John caught the tiniest bit of guilt in the other´s eyes. Or was he mistaken? The second went by and a look of stern intention veiled the blue grey but very bloodshot eyes. Sherlock remained silent.

“Listen, you can spend the night here, if you want. On the sofa.“ John added quickly. “You need to rest your leg. When did you last have a proper sleep in a decent place and something to eat? You´re far too thin.“

John took another scrutinizing look over Sherlock´s whole appearance. The man was clearly outspent, his breathing shallow, skin very pale and his forehead sweaty, long fingers still slightly trembling. It seemed very much like a chemical issue.

“Do you need a hit?“ John asked with concern.

“As I explained to you _before_ and _over and over_ _again_ , No! I injected saline. I hate repeating myself. Repetition is for dull-brained idiots!“ Sherlock hissed clearly annoyed. “I´m just a bit shaky because of the blood loss and probably very low blood glucose levels as well. I guess I forgot to eat for some time.“ The last sentence came out more like a question than a statement.

_He does not know when he ate the last time? But he does know what happens to his blood glucose levels? He is a walking contradiction._

John frowned. Sherlock was definitely talking like an addict with symptoms of withdrawal but denying the possibility of having a drug habit, not that John had much experience with drugs. But he did know a lot about alcoholics since sadly his sister was one of them.

_Forgetting to eat, pah! Rather spending all of the money he scrapes together on the next hit._

“There are some old chocolate bars in the kitchen, left over army rations in fact. I´ll get them for you and make tea. Do you want some? Sorry, I ran out of milk“ he offered and felt just a bit embarrassed about it.

Sherlock sighed grateful: “Tea would be fine and I would like the chocolate, too.“

While the electric kettle heated up and John rummaged in the drawers of the tiny kitchen searching for the promised chocolate bars, Sherlock hauled himself up and hobbled over to the old and sunken-in sofa where he slumped down in a messy heap of long limbs.

“If I understand you correctly, you would let me sleep here tonight?“ Sherlock sounded surprised.

“Yes, of course“, John replied from the kitchen, “I can´t let you out on the streets like that“, the doctor waved a hand in his direction.

Sherlock took the tea and the sweets which John offered him.

“Is this a stupid helper complex of yours? Since you don´t believe what I say still assuming I´m a down-and-out junkie, then you should not trust me. So why let me stay and risk whatever I´ll do to you when you are sleeping?“

Sherlock looked up quizzically at John with his left eyebrow raised. A blueish bruise started to show on his jaw where he got punched by the ex-soldier. It added to his overall wretched appearance and matched the colour of his black eye perfectly.

“Since you somehow saved my life, the least I can do is help you now. Helping people is not stupid, you know? Anyway, what are you planning to do to me?“ John made a deliberate pause. “Maybe I should mention that I sleep with a loaded gun under my pillow?“

John was just kidding, he never had the gun in his bed. Far too dangerous since he had nightmares of the war nearly every night and was most disoriented when he finally woke up, but he casually glanced menacingly at Sherlock who let out his trademark deep rumbling laughter.

_What an endearing sound._

“Now it´s my time to disbelieve _you_. I´ll not hurt you though, I promise. Innocent and harmless, you remember?“ Sherlock gave John a warm and friendly smile and made big puppy eyes but showing a fair amount of mischief.

“More like sly and dangerous“, John replied good-naturedly.

_He has such unearthly beautifully coloured eyes! Slightly slanted like a cat´s, I could stare into them endlessly and get myself utterly lost…_

They sat in amicable silence together on the old sofa for some time. Sherlock devoured the choc bars ravenously, slurped his tea and afterwards seemed to drift into a state of falling asleep every minute, his eyes drooping heavily. John finished his cup and recalled this very peculiar day.

He had started in a suicidal mood again in the morning after a very nasty and vivid nightmare of dying soldiers, bloody body parts flying around and him helpless in the turmoil not able to do anything all while as his wounded friends screamed and screamed.

Now after the flashback and gunshot wound shock gone he was actually delighted having met this weird man called Sherlock again. He had something of a mystery around him and was evidently more than he seemed at first sight. Very interesting, very intelligent and very _dangerous_.

Sherlock had made him laugh again. He had stopped him shooting himself three days ago in that miserable back alley and after that John had felt alive for the first time since he came back from Afghanistan. Now he secretly wished to see this quirky addict more often. If only…

“Sherlock, will you sleep here tonight or will you just slink off to your seedy back alleys and drug dens again?“ John was honestly concerned about his well-being.

Snapping his closed eyes suddenly open the man replied slurring his words already halfway asleep.

“I´ll stay on the sofa. Haven´t really slept more than some hours in days and my transport will betray me soon anyway. Might as well just sleep now. Give me five hours rest and I´ll be fine and won´t bother you any longer.“

_Transport, what does he mean by that? The man is so weird!_

“You won´t bother me. But use the shower first. It´s tiny, still the water´s hot, at least for a while. You´ll have to wrap a plastic bag around your leg so that the dressing doesn´t get wet.“

“No. Sleep only.“ Sherlock yawned.

John frowned: “You should take a shower. You´re filthy all over!“

Sherlock groaned, exasperated: “I´m living on the streets obviously! Why are you so obsessed with my outer appearance? I look exactly like a homeless destitute junkie is supposed to!“ He watched John through squinted eyes.

“By saying supposed, do you imply again you´re not one?“

_He always gives such cryptical answers that could be interpreted in several ways and I have no possibility to really understand what he means. It´s quite infuriating!_

“God, John, and again! I have been an addict, you noted the old scar tissue on my arms, but I. Am. Not. Now!“

_There is no way of talking civilly to him. Better drop the junkie issue for once. He looks tired and needs to rest. We should talk tomorrow. Hopefully he´s still here then._

“Look, I don´t want to be impolite but are you aware that your… um, body odour is quite… um, discomforting?“ John hemmed and hawed.

Sherlock nodded sleepily. “Yes, I know. It´s the hoodie. Sorry ´bout that. Has to be nevertheless.“ His eyes twinkled with cockiness while he shrugged his shoulders.

John was taken aback how Sherlock could be so oblivious about that.

_Does he just not care anymore about hygiene while sleeping rough, being used to filthiness and smelling like a sewer? Does he have no self-esteem left?_

John really liked him, he was sort of insane but also rather surprising and most of all he made John´s life interesting again but there had a point to be made.

“No, it doesn´t! You´re smelling like rotting meat! It´s appalling! The flat already reeks of you. It gave me a fucking flashback! How can you possibly ignore that?“ John ground his teeth.

“Listen, if you want to sleep here you shove your arse into the bloody shower, _now_!“ He easily fell into his military command voice which suffered no backtalk. “I´m not going to inhale this stench the whole night long!“

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the stern look on John´s face, he could not possibly smell that awful, or could he? He himself didn´t perceive it any longer very clearly, even with his superior sense of smell that could discern so many more odours than most people but Sherlock also knew that one could eventually become sort of immune to one´s own smell when the time of exposure was just long enough.

Also, Sherlock felt something tingling in his stomach as he heard the commanding tone of the seemingly unassuming and ordinary small man in front of him. He wondered what John would look like in his military fatigues. If he would be demanding and superior?

Sherlock of course would never admit that John might be right and so he raised one eyebrow instead, giving John a very aloof look while correcting him in a most defiant voice.

“To be correct, it´s the smell of rotting _fish_ actually“, followed by another very smug grin. Of course Sherlock had to have the last word.

John glared: “Do you always have to have the last word?“

_There is no way of arguing with this arrogant prat!_

“Obviously.“

After a brief stare-down Sherlock deigned to turn around histrionically and leave for the bathroom. But not without complaining sullenly. “Don´t order me around like a child.“

Sherlock thought, surprising himself, that it was somehow… nice… to be ordered by John. He instantly swore to never tell him.

John´s immediate reply was tart: “Then don´t act like one.“

So, just to annoy him a bit more while John had the possibility to have a bit of revenge he called after Sherlock.

“Don´t forget to have a go at your face with the spare toothbrush and the one-way shaver. Do wash your greasy hair, thoroughly, otherwise you´ll leave stains on the cushions and I will not have that!“

Sherlock huffed full of indignation, “I am quite capable of cleaning myself up!“, slamming the bathroom door shut. A little later the splashing of water could be heard. John grinned like he hadn´t in a very long time.

_It´s rather funny to order him around but he responds well to my commands… I wonder what he would be like in bed, being top or bottom, argh… why am I always thinking about sex when I´m thinking about him? I don´t even know if he´s gay, Jesus, John get a hold on yourself! I´m not even gay myself, for God´s sake! But he looks… delectable._

Twenty minutes or so later the door opened again. Sherlock stepped outside with only a towel wrapped around his middle holding it up with one hand. The rest of his body was gloriously naked.

“Where are my clothes?“ he asked feeling irritated.

Hearing the question John turned around and couldn´t help but stare open mouthed. He exhaled a loud gasp of awe. The junkie person John still called Shezza had completely disappeared. Instead the Sherlock person revealed was being utterly…beautiful. The transition he underwent was absolutely breathtaking.

The man who was now standing in John´s tiny bedsit simply looked _gorgeous_. Even when his face was looking really grumpy, searching for his clothes.

 _Oh Gosh!_ _He is ethereally beautiful. Freaking otherworldly entrancing…_

Shezza was like a newly found rough diamond: just a blunt mud-covered stone dug out of the river bank. Nothing of worth to the unaware´s eye. Sherlock instead was the polished multi-faceted diamond in its state of utter perfection. Gleaming with an internal fire, sparkling facets multiplying his iridescent light.

_Urgh! Since when do I have such sappy thoughts? I´m in so much trouble…_

Without the ragged baggy clothes Sherlock had worn before John could see now the full leanness of his tall body. He was thin, but not emaciated, his torso covered with sinewy muscles, the flawless skin a pale marble colour and nearly hairless. His limbs were long and delicate, like a dancer´s. The mop of half-dry black hair was already curling up in a most spectacular way. Without the scruff and grime on his face he appeared quite youthful, fragile even with nearly translucent skin. An aristocratic face, sporting absurdly sharp cheekbones, a cute just slightly retroussé nose above an incredible mouth with a perfect cupid´s bow.

Sherlock´s lively blue grey eyes were half closed as he opened his mouth a tiny bit to suppress a lazy yawn that showed just a sliver of his upper white teeth which were contrasted superbly by his red tongue. His facial expression was highly lascivious, promising the lure of debauchery, even more so as it was completely unintentional and Sherlock being utterly oblivious to it.

John unconsciously licked his upper lip and kept on staring. Trying hard to breathe steadily. Trying hard not to salivate. Too much. The blood left John´s head and pooled… somewhere else.

“You appreciate my body“, Sherlock stated matter-of-factly and broke the rapt emptiness in John´s brain. “Do you want me to pay with it for your doctoral services and the offering of the shower and sofa?“ Piercing blue grey eyes watched John inquiringly.

The ex-soldier blushed very deeply. “No! No, of course not! I would never…“, John was scandalized and felt genuinely embarrassed by his fascination, nearly salivating like a horny teenager.

_Oh my God! He´s seen me staring and drooling like a creep… I hope there´s no drool running down my chin. Thank heaven that I´m wearing loose jeans. For God´s sake, get a hold of yourself, John!_

Quickly John wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. He stammered: “I was only thinking… that you look... ah… a lot… um… _healthier_ now with all the dirt gone.“

John took a deep breath, trying very hard to compose himself and switched to verbal attack mode in an instant to cover up his shame. “Why? Are you offering yourself?“

Sherlock stared back calmly, one hand still clutching the towel to prevent that it would slip down while the other tousled lazily through his hair. His keen eyes scrutinized John like some exotic specimen under a microscope.

“Not at all. I only wanted to know if I would wake up tonight on the sofa with you squirming on top of me and if I´d have to fend you off.“

_Why does he have to do that? How can he be so utterly unaware of the effect he creates? He who notices everything anytime? He can´t have such a blind spot - or can he? Or is he trying to seduce me? Me? Definitely not me. And I am not gay, well not until now at least._

_Would he like me squirming on top of him? Pressing him down?_

John still felt the hotness of his blushed cheeks, when did this ever get better and quickly decided to change the subject. He nodded towards the sofa.

“There are some clothes for you to put on. The tracksuit bottoms and tee may be a bit too short for you but at least they´re clean. You can keep them if you want.“ John felt very awkward suggesting Sherlock should keep his clothes.

“Or give them back later.“ He added insecurely and licked his lips again.

Sherlock gave John a quizzical look while he ambled to the sofa to pick up the clothes. He retreated to the bathroom for changing but couldn´t suppress to perform a very seductive swaying with his hips before closing the door.

Sherlock heard John call after him “Stupid prat!“ and laughed silently.

_This ex-soldier is becoming ever more interesting…and he has such lovely deep blue eyes and such skilful hands…useful perfectly steady hands…when he touched my leg my skin was like burning in electric fire, wait…that does make no sense at all, but…I should find a way to make him touch me again._

Fully dressed Sherlock re-entered John´s small bedsit. He looked very funny because John´s clothes were definitely too short for him, part of his lower shinbones and the slender ankles showed below the hem of the tracksuit bottoms, while the blue tee barely reached down to the waist, revealing a small band of Sherlock´s taut abdominal skin as soon as he raised his arms.

John tried to suppress a chuckle and failed utterly. “You look ludicrous!“, he wheezed.

Sherlock shrugged. “That´s all your fault. You took my clothes away while I showered and washed them in the sink“, he nodded to a small laundry rack that was now standing in front of the cooker, “without asking me so you have to put up with ludicrous.“

And without apparent context he added: “That was the reason why I rubbed the rotting fish on my hoodie.“

John was flabbergasted: “You did _what_?“

“The smell you disliked so much. It was a rotting fish I retrieved from the market. You thought it was meat.“

John gaped again at Sherlock, utterly not understanding what the madman was talking about.

Sherlock sighed and elaborated. “I chose to smell repugnant because I was so fed up with rejecting all the lecherous clients. My body seems to be quite attractive to people even if it is not in a socially acceptable state.“ He looked accusingly at John as if he was personally offended by John not comprehending what he said.

John stared wide-eyed and incredulously back at Sherlock and maybe even a little bit disappointed: “Are you telling me that you´re a rent boy?“

“Oh, John! Do listen! Don´t look so troubled! I´m telling you I offered my help _to_ them not my body _like_ them!“ Sherlock sniffed. “Why should I reject the clients` money if I were soliciting?“

John ground his teeth as he became wary: “What sort of help?“

“Sort of guardian angel help.“ Sherlock replied benevolently and smiled his typical Sherlockian Smug Smile.

John snorted loudly and threw his hands in the air, unaware of his theatrical gesture.

“Jesus! Someday your cryptic answers will cause the death of me due to unbearable mental exhaustion. You never truly explain _anything_ , do you?“

“Not my fault if you´re so slow in understanding. But me causing your death by my answers would require that we would be discussing topics on a regular basis in the near future.“ Sherlock almost sounded insecure but he had a sly look in his eyes, watching John intently _._

The doctor was lost in thought, wondering about how Sherlock sounded like a posh upper-class gentlemen. Dressed in outgrown clothes. Yet he still was looking sexy as fuck. With this velvety voice he could melt…

“Would you like that?“ John snapped out of his new reverie and tried to hide that he was desperately hoping to see Sherlock more often. “Just talking, I mean.“ He added quickly.

Sherlock observed the hope flickering through John´s eyes and he was secretly overwhelmed by his offering to get to know each other better but of course he played it down.

“I think maybe, well. Um! If I´m not too busy… OK.“

Then he sighed and decided to admit the truth and said in a low voice: “Yes, I would be looking forward to that. John, you are a real enigma to me.“

John shook his head: “Why is that?“

“Because you are not yet disgusted with me and even seek out my company. No one does that. Not after dealing with me for more than a few minutes. You´re quite unique.“

Sherlock lowered his head to avoid John´s gaze suddenly feeling shy and afraid of rejection so he flopped down on the sofa covering himself with the woollen blanket and stared at the ceiling. He heard John rustling as he got into the bed.

“No one called me unique before _._ And the only enigmatic one here is definitely you.“

_Oh! He really seems to like me. I didn´t expect that at all. He must be really lonely I think. Or is it that we are both so damaged that we can understand each other when normal people can´t?_

John turned off the lights. “Sherlock?

“Hm?“

John had the urge to tease Sherlock one more time: “Are you free of lice? I don´t want my sofa contaminated.“

“Hmph! How very funny.“ Sherlock snorted indignantly, “how do I know that it´s not me attracting bedbugs in this hole?“

John´s laugh was warm and friendly. “Good night, Sherlock.“

“Sleep well, John.“

“You too.“

“And John? Did you remember to put your gun under the pillow? Just in case I´ll decide to mutilate you while sleeping?“

Nothing on Earth would stop Sherlock Holmes from having the last word. He would even out-live God for that.


	11. TRUST

I´m unashamed of my mistakes, I walked the path I had to take

It´s made me who I am today

Here I am, This is all of me

I´m not hiding, I´m standing tall for all to see

Here I am, There is nothing bigger

Nothing brighter than a future I see

Here I am, Asking Alexandria

John woke up the next morning in a state of utter relaxation. It took him quite a while though to realize this. No tensed or sore muscles, no sweaty sheets, no headache and most surprisingly of all he had apparently slept through the night. Amazingly he had not woken up after a nightmare as he used to most of his nights since he came home traumatized from the war in Afghanistan.

He stretched comfortably, enjoying the relaxed feeling he had simply forgotten existed (at least for him) and basked in the warmth and softness of his bed a little bit longer. He sincerely wished that he would wake up like this every morning and as his brain slowly started working again John began to wonder what had caused his extraordinary and fantastic sleep.

He yawned and turned around to face his room, batting his eyes to get a clear view. There was someone sitting at his table and typing away on his laptop. The man with the riotous black curls said in a sensual resonating baritone, “Good morning, John. Did you sleep well?“ without bothering to turn around and face him.

John´s brain was still drowsy from the unusual long uninterrupted sleep.

_Now wait a moment, who is this? Why is there a man in my bedsit, using my laptop and wearing my clothes?_

Sitting up, John suddenly remembered the events of the previous day. The occurrences around this fascinating man named Sherlock had somehow managed to distract him well enough to chase the nightmares away.

_How astonishing, how curious, how utterly unbelievable… Thank God, he´s still here._

_So, no mutilations happened. Should I be disappointed now?_

“Good morning, Sherlock. I rather feared you would have sneaked out and disappeared while I was still sleeping. How long have you been awake?“ John scratched his injured shoulder, the marred skin itching.

Sherlock turned and looked at John, his mouth in a slight sneer but his pale eyes shone with a warm light.

“I obviously could not leave without the permission of my sleepyheaded doctor.“

Then the sneer changed into a lopsided grin. “I usually don´t sleep long and I didn´t want to wake you up. I suppose it was a long time since you didn´t have any nightmares.“ The grin quickly morphed into his trademark smug smile.

_How can the impossible sod always know things like this?_

Feigning not to have heard the last sentence John demanded, “Oh, right. I should take a look at your leg and change the dressings. Come here and let me see“, he patted the bed beside him.

“Do you want me to cuddle up beside you?“ Sherlock asked mischievously.

“Do you know that you are an impossible sod?“

“I was told so now and again“, came Sherlock´s stoic answer. John just had to laugh.

 _This man is simply unbelievable_.

“Oi! What have you been doing with my computer?“ It only occurred right then to John since he was still sleepy after all. “How… it´s password protected!“, he exclaimed, suddenly miffed.

Sherlock wheezed contemptuously as he went to sit down beside John.

“Really, John! It took me only 33 seconds to figure out your password.“

John gaped sceptically.

“So you finally found something to blog about or should I rather say _someone_?“ Sherlock winked at the stunned doctor and his eyes lit up with unconcealed mirth.

“You hacked into my computer and read my blog? But… it´s private! You pried about my personal things!“ John shouted, feeling anger and humiliation at the same time.

_What have I written about Sherlock? Is there anything to be ashamed of? Anyway it would be his problem, sticking his nose into other people´s private stuff, wouldn´t it?_

Sherlock looked at him calmly. “I don´t _pry_. A blog is not really private. Aren´t people supposed to read these on the internet?“ He had the audacity to appear slightly insulted.

“Anyway, I came across it merely by chance. While I waited for you to wake up I used the time to check some chatrooms and forums.“

 _This is no explanation at all, again! And I guess he will never apologize for anything, too. Does he even know about personal boundaries?_ _Because he doesn´t fucking care at all_.

But John decided to take the bait and asked somehow defeated: “Which chatrooms?“

“Mostly pornographic websites dealing with sadistic bondage practices.“ Sherlock said as if this was the most natural thing in the world, he even sounded a bit bored of the subject.

John let out a loud snort, “Are you getting off on that stuff?“

_I will definitely die of a heart attack due to him! Knowing him it won´t take long to accomplish that._

“Why do you always assume the worst of me? It´s for my work.“ Sherlock looked at John disparagingly, “Don´t be an idiot!“

“So you lied to me yesterday that you aren´t working as a rent boy. Is there any time when you ever tell the truth?“ John´s voice broke.

_Damn it! He lied to me, again. He doesn´t even bother to keep up with yesterday´s lie. I thought better of him. How could I even have imagined believing him? Of all possible people I´d really like to be trustworthy it has to be this pathetic lying junkie._

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply affronted “I am not… “, but John cut him short: “Forget it! You are a manipulative pathologic liar! I won´t have anyone betraying my trust ever again!“

“…working as a rent-boy!“ Sherlock finished his sentence.

John only stared blankly at Sherlock, his whole posture screaming of disappointment.

“Maybe it would be better if I tell you to leave right now and never get in contact with me again“, he said quietly, his ocean blue eyes full of hurt.

_Trust issues, like my therapist said._

Sherlock was genuinely shocked. He drew in a sharp hiss and stared wide-eyed and rapidly blinking at John, his mouth open. He felt a strange stinging sensation in his chest and his heart missed several beats. He tried very hard to process at which point the conversation had gone so horribly wrong, what he had said or done to upset John in a way that it would take him to such drastic measures.

It was difficult to admit to himself that he didn´t want to lose John right now, the only person who had decided to befriend him in a very long time, who did not judge, patronize or despise him clearly from the beginning.

_Instead he finds me amazing. Me! OK, he punched me in the face but that´s only fair because I shocked him into a flashback._

He had to win him back at once. John was interesting, he seemed to like him which was extraordinary, _John_ was extraordinary. Sherlock felt desperate to get this right. He had to make that right! But what should he do? John looked so hurt, should he apologize? He never apologized, but this could be an exception. But he had done nothing wrong. Or had he? He did not lie to John.

_I am just shit with social interaction and sentiments. Really should not try or hope for a normal relationship with…people._

After a minute of utter shock Sherlock resurfaced back to reality to find John still standing in front of him, glaring at him in unconcealed anger and hurt.

Sherlock hesitated and with a slightly shaking voice he inquired: “Did I disappoint you, John?“

But the doctor just kept staring.

“I don´t understand.“ This was hard to admit but the truth nevertheless. Ongoing silence followed.

“You think I betrayed your trust? Do you want me to apologize? What should I apologize for?“

John hummed dangerously low, emitting a sound more like a growl. His hands slowly clenched into fists at his side.

_Finally, a reaction at last. But I still have no clue what to do. How embarrassing, Sherlock Holmes, utterly clueless!_

“You don´t want to be lied to but would a fake apology not be a lie, too? I told you the truth the whole time. What have I done wrong?“

Sherlock´s voice was on the verge of desperation now and he truly hated it. Normally he wouldn´t give a damn about what people thought of him but with John it suddenly mattered. It mattered a lot. An _awful_ lot.

“What can I do to make you believe that I never lied about anything I told you?“ Sherlock hated that pleading sound which had crept into his voice. He hated himself as well.

 _Stupid. Stupid Sherlock. Please John, say something. Anything. Help me._ _What shall I say?_

John only drew in a deep breath but still kept his silence. He was watching Sherlock`s struggling intently and his cold expression was menacing like hell. Squinted eyes and his normally so soft mouth was pressed into a thin line of pure anger.

“I am actually not very good with people.“ Sherlock admitted sheepishly in a feeble voice, feeling guilty of his inadequacy when it came to interacting with fellow human beings. No, only with one fellow human being named John it mattered.

_Do I have to beg? But I never beg!_

“Tell me what to do… Please?“ Sherlock looked away.

 _He does not say anything, he just stares murderously at me._ _So he despises me now, too._ _Maybe I better go. Yes, that´s it. I´m leaving. I really should not try for friendship, I´m just a complete failure at that. A total write-off. Just a sociopath._

_I only hurt myself trying to do sentiments. I swore to never let someone get close to me again after Sailor´s death, how could I have thrown away this resolve so quickly after meeting John? I´m a ridiculous man! A pathetic idiot looking for company and appreciation._

Sherlock shuffled past John with hanging shoulders and a face overflowing with self-loathing. He reached for the doorknob without looking back, about to go.

“I better leave. I hurt you and I´m not good. I just don´t deserve having you as a friend. Or any friends at all.“ He muttered defeated.

John had been watching Sherlock closely throughout his confused fumbling with words and emotions, still undecided what he should make of the uneasy situation but as he saw the huge amount of self-contempt in Sherlock´s pale eyes John felt a sickening stab in his heart.

_I should at least be so fair and give him the chance to explain himself. He should not leave like this. Convinced that he is bad company and hating himself for that._

“Wait, Sherlock. I´ll let you explain but do make an effort this time.“ John commanded.

Sherlock flinched at hearing John´s voice, having not expected to be withheld from leaving. He felt a wave of relief washing over him. He stopped dead in his tracks, turned around, extremely tense and frightened to botch it up again. He pressed his back against the door as if needing encouragement or a stronghold for what was to come, for what was to be done as he decided to confide in John about the case.

So, Sherlock started explaining in rapid-fire mode.

“John, I may not have told you the whole truth but what I told you is all true. I work as a consulting detective and I am currently investigating a case where some of the drug addicted rent boys who specialised in BDSM vanished or got killed recently. They asked me to help since no one else will do that and because there is an old connection to them due to my former life as a junkie. To accomplish that I had to go undercover and disguise myself as a homeless addict so I injected saline which I filled in morphine syringes because my arms had to show fresh track marks to be believable. As I was following a suspect yesterday I was accidentally discovered and he shot me in the calf. Since I had to remain undercover I could not visit a hospital and sought you out for stitching me up as you expressed the wish to see me again earlier and were not put off by me being myself after our first encounter. John, I don´t have friends, I am a total failure when it comes to social interaction and emotions - _but I did not lie to you!“_

John was baffled by the sheer velocity of Sherlock`s speaking who was breathing hard now, still pressing his back anxiously against the door like a frightened animal in a corner, his jaws clenched, the eyes shut firmly and his mouth pressed together into a thin pained line. His expression was one of a convict awaiting the judge to declare his death sentence.

_Well that was a hell of an explanation! So I just misinterpreted his answers, obscure as they were. Thank goodness! He is really afraid of being kicked out. Of being rejected. I guess he must have had a hard time with being turned down every so often in his life before. And I threatened to do this to him even if he was honest to me. Shit, he´s even starting to tremble…_

“Sherlock, calm down and look at me.“

The trembling intensified while Sherlock tried to melt into the door.

“Open your eyes, please. You´ve done nothing wrong.“ John´s voice had returned to soft and understanding, his deep blue eyes gentle again.

“I misunderstood what you said. I´m sorry. I won´t throw you out. Please stay!“

Sherlock opened his eyes hesitantly not yet believing he had heard correctly. His voice wavered insecure and he glanced very shyly at John´s face as he whispered: „I´m sorry, too. Thank you, John.“

„Sherlock?“

John had the strong feeling that Sherlock was unused to thanking people so he appreciated his effort even more.

“Yes?“

“Am I right that you were surveilling someone undercover when you encountered me in this back-alley?“ John asked casually.

“Yeeesss?“ Sherlock squinted his eyes suspiciously, alerted again.

“So why did you interfere and prevented my possible suicide?“

A faint blush appeared on Sherlock´s otherwise pale cheekbones as he decided to stick to the truth.

“Well, um, I thought that a loud gunshot and a corpse splattered with bits of brain would blow my cover and I could not afford the place swarming with police, not with the first real lead I had in days.“

_Honesty isn´t always beneficial. In fact it is mostly not, thinking of how people react to my deductions… I hope it doesn´t backfire on me now. But I promised John to tell the truth. So here we are… that´s just my way of thinking._

“So you weren´t interested in saving a human life but in saving your case?“ John asked incredulously, eyes big and the right corner of his mouth twitched.

“Erm, admittedly… yes. But if I had known there and then who you are I would have done it to save _you_ as well“, he added quickly and Sherlock´s blush deepened.

John chuckled. “Sherlock, this is simply the most unflattering reason I have ever heard for preventing a suicide.“

Sherlock peered sideways at John but seeing the doctor´s open amusement his pent-up face was relaxing and a coy smile arose.

„That´s just how I am.“

John smiled fondly back.

“Come sit down, you git, I´ll make us tea. Do you want toast with it for breakfast? You can tell me more about this consulting detective stuff.“

John went to the fridge, opened it and removed butter and jam. “Oh, I´m still out of milk. Problem?“

Sherlock ambled back, slumped down on the sofa and spread out his long legs in front of him after kicking off his worn-out trainers.

“No, just tea for me, thanks. I ate all that chocolate yesterday, so it´ll be enough for the next days.“ Sherlock frowned dismissively at the idea of eating so soon again after the load of sweets he had had last evening. His transport should be satisfied for the next time.

John snorted and scolded: “As your _doctor_ I must tell you that your eating regimen is very unhealthy. You can´t live from tea, chocolate and _saline_ alone.“

Sherlock sniffed. “I don´t like eating when I´m on a case. Digestion makes me slow. I don´t eat much anyway.“

“Yeah, I can see that. You´re thin as a rake.“

“I´m fine, John.“

After a while they slowly drank tea, John used his favourite RAMC mug, Sherlock had been given a white one with broad black stripes, in which he heaped three spoonful of sugar much to John´s unconcealed disgust.

Sherlock eyed John thoughtfully as the doctor nibbled at an apple. “John, what is it with you and your trust issues?“

“I have been told so many lies by so many people, I simply can´t bear hearing one anymore. It´s infuriating me“, the doctor replied evasively.

“The hardest time to lie to somebody is when they´re expecting to be lied to. If someone´s waiting for a lie you can´t just give them one.“ Sherlock contemplated.

“So what do you do then?“

Sherlock shrugged. “Tell them the truth and they obviously won´t believe it.“

“Yes. This worked very well with me.“ John stated ruefully.

After they had finished their small breakfast, John handed Sherlock a plastic bag.

“Here, your clothes are dry again and clean. Well, at least cleaner than before. I suppose you want them back?“

“Of course! I have no intention of going out on the street clad like this!“ Sherlock gestured indignantly with fleeting spidery fingers towards himself wearing John´s too short casual clothes. John raised an inquiring eyebrow and cocked his head.

Sherlock snorted. “I look like a deranged alcoholic on his way to the next booze store. It´s mortifying!“

“So you prefer to look like a filthy homeless junkie instead?“

“That´s exactly what I´m supposed to look like. As I already told you three days ago. Undercover, remember?“

Sherlock huffed loudly and looked down at himself, disgruntled.

“Apart from the fact that neither me nor my clothes are filthy anymore because you _forced_ me to shower and laundered my gear without asking. I´m looking far too respectable now…“, Sherlock sulked.

 _This moue is adorable_. _Can I take a photo?_

“Sod you! Go and sue me for human rights abuse.“ John remained completely unperturbed. “You´ll still be looking down-and-out enough wearing those frazzled rags.“

Sherlock grumbled while changing into his tattered clothes. “Your opinion doesn´t count!“

Some minutes later, John accompanied Sherlock down the stairs and out onto the street for saying good bye. Both men were standing in the middle of the pavement and shuffled awkwardly around as both of them were short for words all of a sudden.

The passers-by eyed Sherlock suspiciously, not being sure what to make of his ragged appearance. Better to be careful and give the unsavoury figure a wide berth. Sherlock of course was totally oblivious to that, he kept looking at John, his face unfathomable.

John broke the uncomfortable silence first. “Well, good bye then. Where will you go?“

Sherlock shrugged. “First I´ll go to my flat, I´ve got research to do. Then back undercover on the streets. There´s still a murderer to catch!“

 _I´d really like to see his flat_. _I wonder if it is as peculiar as him._ _And_ _what does “research“ mean? But he didn´t tell me his address._

“Hmph. Stay out of trouble, will you?“ John pleaded.

“That will definitely _not_ happen!“ A broad and honest smile made laughter lines appear around Sherlock´s gleaming blue grey eyes.

“No need to get patched up again.“ John was genuinely concerned about Sherlock´s utter lack of self-preservation.

“I know where to find a capable doctor.“ He winked at John.

“So you will stay in touch?“ John noticed that he was already beginning to miss Sherlock.

 _As nerve-wracking and insane as he is, being around him is exciting._ _The promise of danger, adventure, life._

An arrogant eye roll followed. “I´ll visit you again. Have to practise my lock-picking skills after all. Might as well buy a better lock and make it more of a challenge.“ Sherlock smirked.

John smiled. “Do your best.“

“Thank you, John.“

Sherlock turned and started to walk away. John could only stare pensively after him.

Both men were deep in their thoughts, so that neither of them noticed the dark blue van which drove slowly along Sherlock´s side, halted as its sliding door opened and two bulky men in black suits quickly grabbed the tall man´s lean shoulders. A cloth was pressed over Sherlock´s nose and he instantly went limp. He was pulled roughly into the van, the door being shut while the car already sped away. All of this happened in less than 30 seconds.

John had to process the scene he just had witnessed. _So much for staying out of trouble…_ but soldier as he was, he knew instantly what to do. Afterwards he realized that he hadn´t actively made the decision to follow the van, it was simply the most natural thing to do. The urge to protect Sherlock was already as strong as his need to breathe.

John looked around quickly and was very relieved that only mere seconds later an empty taxi was driving by. He hailed it, jumped in and ordered calmly “Follow the dark van in front of us!“

The female driver gave him a curious look, but nodded shortly and did as he demanded.

“You watch too many spy movies“, she stated dryly. She was quite beautiful, long wavy brown hair and dark brown eyes.

“No. I´m just willing to follow my friend in this van.“

It crossed John´s mind that he did not bring his wallet or his phone so he had no money or identification with him.

 _Can think about it later though. First of all we must not lose Sherlock_.

“So he´s your _friend_ already? Really amazing since he isn´t the type to befriend people at all.“

The woman pressed a button and the doors locked themselves with a loud clicking noise. A glass pane slid up to separate the backseat with John from the driver in front.

_What the fuck…? Oh! Shit! Seems as if I´m abducted, too. Great. Well done, John! At least I don´t have to worry about not being able to pay anymore. Might as well enjoy the free ride… and see where this ends. Guess I´ll meet Sherlock much sooner again than I hoped to._

_Shame I didn´t pack my gun._

They followed the van through the dense London morning traffic until they stopped in front of an old derelict warehouse.

_Well, where else to bring your abduction victims to? This is so cliché… and she said I´m the one who watches too many spy movies!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oopsie, cliffhanger…
> 
> The comment of lying when a lie is expected is borrowed from the movie “The Imitation Game“


	12. DESCENT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the tags drug use and suicidal ideation apply to this chapter

And then I found out how hard it is to really change

Even hell can get comfortable once you´ve settled in

I just wanted the numb inside me to leave.

No matter how fucked you get, sorrow is there when you come back down

The days are a death wish a witch hunt for an exit, I am powerless.

Everybody wants to go to heaven but nobody wants to die

I can fear death no longer, I´ve died a thousand times

A wasteful universe and we don´t know our soul

was emptiness inside our heads but no one dares to dwell

Hospital for Souls, Bring Me The Horizon

_In the past_

After the man who had been named William Scott left the place where he had been truly happy for the longest period in his life ever, he rented himself a dingy single room flat in a run-down apartment house. He immediately called the homicide division to anonymously tell them about Brian´s corpse and then spent his time holed up in there, always thinking about the best and safest way to bring Sailor´s murderer to justice. He immersed himself completely in his task for four days and forgot about anything else. He did not sleep, eat or wash himself and only drank water directly from the tab if he absolutely had to.

On the fifth day Sherlock suddenly collapsed on the ratty carpet floor and remembered that his cursed transport had just betrayed him because it needed mundane nourishment. Cussing and sulking he went out as he was, looking like a living corpse, definitely smelling like one and made his way, severely staggering due to his physical exhaustion to the next supermarket. He bought biscuits, toast, butter, marmalade, milk, tea and sugar.

He was completely oblivious to how the other customers gave him a wide berth. Since he wore only a pair of filthy pyjama bottoms and a threadbare T-shirt that left his elbows with the track marks freely visible for everyone and walked on socks only, the cashier was very close to call the police to remove a raving lunatic junkie off the premises.

Luckily for Sherlock who was the most observant man in the world but right now noticed absolutely nothing of his surroundings, being lost in his mind palace still pondering how to best tip off the police and operating only on his cerebellum, the cashier decided to refrain from calling the police since the madman did not behave dangerously or offensive in any way and therefore it would just cause the business to be interfered with. The junkie kept quiet and paid without fussing before ambling off and everything was fine.

The boost of energy Sherlock´s neglected transport got from the desperately needed food caused two things: first, Sherlock collapsed onto the virginal bed and slept for unbelievable 22 hours in a row and second, when he finally woke up he had the perfect solution for his plan to get the murderer to jail.

In the days that followed, Sherlock kept track of the doings of the police, trailing them to the flat of the culprit, watched as they cuffed him and drove him to the nearest police station. He hacked his way into the computer of the homicide division and surveilled the progress of taking evidence and charging the suspect with intentional murder. Sherlock made sure to send some of his secured evidence to the DI in charge so that the blundering morons had enough for a conviction.

The case came to court quickly as there was no doubt concerning the who, how and why. No one mentioned the anonymous tips that steered the police into the right direction but it was not that Sherlock would have liked taking the credit for solving it. After only five weeks the killer was in jail serving a life-sentence. Sherlock found having his revenge and bringing justice to Sailor deeply satisfying.

Sadly, after the day when the case was finally closed Sherlock´s life began to deteriorate badly as it slid into an ever faster moving downward spiral to eventually hit rock bottom.

Before the conviction of Sailor´s murderer the task had provided Sherlock with a never ending stream of energetic ambition and determined purpose. Afterwards he found himself suddenly lacking even the slightest bit of motivation to do anything at all. He felt adrift on the vast ocean of a life without goals, without an anchor to ground himself, without any clear idea what to achieve.

He had no job, no friends, nowhere to go and no way how he could distract his mind that was ever more racing around in circles, desperately craving interesting input and being more prone to boredom than ever before.

In other words, Sherlock had absolutely no idea at all what he should do with his life and how to occupy that brilliant mind of his.

He had enjoyed the puzzle-solving of the crime more than anything else he had experienced so far (apart from getting high on cocaine of course) and he had felt utterly alive, his mind buzzing all the time with ferocious energy to put the murderer to justice. He loved being able to convict the suspect, to put together all the tiny pieces of evidence, to be able to do something the police were obviously too daft to accomplish, to revenge the man that had done so much for him, had given his life purpose, had grounded him, had taught him so much more apart from the lock-picking and pickpocketing.

Sherlock grieved terribly for Sailor. At first he wasn´t even aware what it was that he felt, but it became clearer to him over time. He badly missed the other man and now as he was gone the loneliness hit Sherlock like a rock square in the chest. In a very quiet moment he admitted to himself that he even had thought of Sailor as a kind of father figure.

Sailor had granted Sherlock his free will but also had set boundaries for him, which to Sherlock´s own surprise he had been willing to obey. In return Sherlock was accepted as he was: rude, brilliant, extremely quirky and lacking any social graces. He had been given a task, providing help in the fencing with estimating the customers and the goods as well as dealing with the logistics.

Of course, after Sailor´s death, Sherlock could not simply carry on and take over the fencing business since all the connections had been Sailor´s first and foremost. The clients knew _of_ Sherlock, but they didn´t _know_ Sherlock and definitely didn´t trust him with his uncanny ability to see right through them. Especially after Sherlock had disappeared directly after the murder a lot of Sailor´s clients had assumed that Sherlock was the one who robbed and killed a man that was vastly respected and even liked in London´s underbelly for being who he was: a decent, discreet and reliable fence. A fence that was missed dearly in his line of business and left a large hole behind.

Sherlock´s descent began slowly at first.

After the rash leaving of Sailor´s flat Sherlock rented himself the above-mentioned dingy single room in that terrible dosshouse which was mostly used by the nearby prostitutes who worked on the street. It provided him with a roof, a dry bed and at least the basic sanitary requirements. Sherlock had had no need of anything above that standard at this time as he was completely preoccupied with solving the murder case.

Unfortunately, after the murderer had been arrested, Sherlock´s boredom and aimlessness rose to ever higher levels never reached before, his unoccupied mind began gnawing away on itself viciously which led to Sherlock sliding uncontrollably faster and faster into his drug habit like a particle of light that had crossed the event horizon and was now irreversibly sucked into a black hole. Never to get back out.

When at first Sherlock only indulged in the cocaine solution two or three times a week, he ended up quickly on several daily injections and increasing the dosage because the effects lessened. It only took him twelve weeks to develop such a severe addiction that he was suffering withdrawal symptoms every time shortly after the rush of the drug ebbed off. He had also begun to shoot up morphine to ease off the multiple pains his neglected body threw at him when the cocaine high ceased and his brain was yearning desperately for more.

He lost weight since he wasn´t eating properly, no more feeling hunger. He became emaciated, his skin dry and pallid and stretching like ancient parchment over his angular face, his body verging on becoming skeletal. The insides of his forearms transformed into a marred mass of skin, the veins punctured so often they became rigid and unsuitable for injecting, so he started to use the ones on the back of his hand or at his ankles.

The ever growing amount of drugs he needed to silence his brain and to ease off his pains was getting more and more expensive, so after eight weeks he was nearly broke, having spent all the money he earned from Sailor as part of his help in the fencing business. Sherlock quickly resumed using his excellent pick-pocketing skills again to buy his pharmaceutical bliss.

Sherlock abandoned the dingy room in the dosshouse to save the weekly rent and since he had nowhere to go but wasn´t willing to live entirely on the streets yet he resumed to dwell in an abandoned crypt in a graveyard, a place he knew from Sailor where the man had stored some of his bulkier illicit goods.

The place was damp and smelly, but the roof was intact, it was well hidden and the entrance nearly unknown to anyone. Of course, it had no electricity or running water, so Sherlock had to resort to lighting it with candles which he put in empty beer cans. A lot of them could be found in the abandoned graveyard. He nicked some sturdy fruit boxes from the market which he tied together with stolen zip ties to build a sort of bedstead and put some old woollen blankets he got from a homeless shelter on it as a sort of mattress. On top he laid Sailor´s sleeping bag. The rest of Sherlock´s meagre belongings went into some more fruit boxes which were tied together as a makeshift shelf.

The graveyard had some smaller cisterns originally used for watering the plants at the graves and Sherlock had to use the stale water for washing. He still cleaned himself regularly in the first three weeks at the graveyard and even tried to keep his clothing as clean as possible but found it soon too tedious and pointless and so he quit washing most of the times.

His clothes became filthy quickly, as he did himself. His soft silky curls deteriorated into greasy dull tangles, growing longer and remaining unkempt. His fingernails were black and broken, his face streaked with old sweat and grime. He began to reek of bodily neglect. The only thing Sherlock payed some attention to was to shave more or less regularly because he could not stand the itching of the scruff on his jaw when it was older than a few days. All in all Sherlock´s looks and body decayed very badly since his arrival at the graveyard.

As the malnourishment proceeded his body started to consume the muscles for sustaining itself and Sherlock got weaker every day. The trembling of his hands which was bad during withdrawal didn´t subside anymore and even when he experienced the direct high after a hit it was still visible when he stretched his fingers.

The pickpocketing grew increasingly dangerous because he couldn´t reliably control the movements of his always slightly shaking hands. Also, as his outer appearance deteriorated rapidly it was getting more and more complicated to get close to his victims in an unsuspicious way. People shied away from him, seeing his dirty hair and face and his ragged clothes. Since he was no mugger and had not the strength to fight with someone even if he felt like trying it, obtaining money became harder every day.

Sherlock switched to petty thefts and skip-diving to get a hold of food and stuff that he could swap or sell somehow, which he loathed but knew that it was necessary as he had to save all his money for the drugs he craved. He could not get himself to start with blunt street begging yet but was fairly sure there was no option to avoid it in the long run.

After fifteen weeks Sherlock was so desperate that he lurched to the place where the “specialised“ (and therefore the most distressed) rent boys waited but the apparent signs of his severe addiction and illness and the overall state of neglect he was in (it could be easily seen even though he had tried his best to clean himself up at the graveyard) repelled everyone. He did not try again to sell what was left of his body for sex.

Somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind in the waning periods of lucidity Sherlock was well aware that he was likely to die rather sooner than later if he did not venture from his set course of rapid self-destruction, but he admitted sadly to himself he simply didn´t care to prolong his pointless, boring, dull life and change something to avert his approaching death. Sherlock bet himself what would cause his final demise: the malnourishment, organ (presumably kidney) failure, overdose or sepsis due to infection.

Sherlock only felt a lot of “less“ these days: aimless, pointless, useless, hopeless, powerless, worthless and even mindless.

Most of the time at the graveyard Sherlock was fairly content with being alone, he only went outside if he had to. He had never been a person who really liked talking to other people, they were all so dense and tedious to communicate with, but talking to himself seemed to be a bit too deranged and sometimes Sherlock actually missed someone he could speak to.

One day Sherlock prowled around the old graves in search for new empty beer cans and left over tea lights or candles when he discovered that a tomb slab had been cracked into pieces and the earth of the grave was troubled. It was likely the work of the bunch of drunken hooligans he had heard last night. He had curled up deeply against the wall of his crypt being scared they might eventually find him, empty his drug stash and beat the crap out of him just for the fun of it.

Sherlock had always been curious and so he looked around the earth of the defiled grave and to his utter amazement he found a half buried skull. It had somehow come halfway up and maybe the sight of it had chased the hooligans away. Sherlock pulled it out of the damp soil to examine it further.

It was an old human skull, judging by the colour of the bone and it was completely devoid of any remains of flesh, tendons or tissue whatsoever. Sherlock rinsed it in a cistern and decided that the skull must surely be lonely lacking the bones of his skeleton and as Sherlock was lonely too, he took the skull with him and positioned it on top of his fruit box shelf.

Sherlock began talking to the skull, feeling an odd comfort in doing so, the skull understood him perfectly, never asked stupid questions, wanted nothing of him and was quite content with his overall position on top of the rickety shelf. The skull became Sherlock´s friend, his only friend to be correct and since friends or persons in general usually had a name to refer to, Sherlock named the skull “Victor“. He had no idea where this name suddenly came from but it sounded just simply right that his friend should be called Victor and Sherlock had long ago stopped deducing himself and what his drug-addled brain brought forward.

After approximately nineteen weeks since the conviction of Sailor´s killer he awoke in the darkness of the evening after unknown hours of morphine induced unconsciousness on his ratty sleeping bag and felt the immediate urge to take a piss. Until now he had already sunken very low concerning the upkeep of cleanliness but had yet retained one final straw of dignity, meaning not to defile his den with his bodily excretions, so he arose still only half-lucid and lurched staggeringly outside towards one of the old oak trees. As he relieved himself he moaned loudly because every single nerve in his body burned in waves of blazing white fire.

It happened just this day that a young couple had discovered the secrecy of the graveyard and they were snogging each other and eagerly groping at their clothes to get naked and have a shag in the twilight of the warm late summer evening.

Sherlock did not notice them, too preoccupied with keeping on his feet and trying hard to remember the reason why he had ventured outside in the first place.

But the couple did notice him. They saw a pale, skeletal and dirt-streaked figure in a ragged tee and filthy ripped jeans stumbling across the main path, moaning loudly.

They were terrified, the woman shrieking wildly, the man cursing through gritted teeth while they turned on the spot and ran. Sherlock did really look like a zombie that had emerged right out of a sappy horror movie and the couple went straight to the next police station to report the unholy appearance they had encountered. But as both of them smelled heavily of smoked pot, the officer on duty dismissed them bluntly after lecturing them on the risks of drug abuse.

Many years later, Sherlock stumbled across this officer´s report while helping D.I. Lestrade with a case of four murders with fake vampire bites on the necks of the victims that all happened at graveyards and he nearly fell from his chair laughing so hard that afterwards his ribs hurt. The D.I. gave Sherlock his very best “You´re an utter madman“ look which caused another wave of Sherlock´s deep rumbling laughter.

Luckily for Sherlock, the woman in her panic had left her bag behind and much to his immense glee and utter relief he found enough money for his next three hits in a wallet and a small tin box full of pot in it. He ate the rest of a chocolate donut and an egg sandwich he also found in the bag and decided he would shoot up his last cocaine now and utilize the energy from the high to walk to Brian´s house and buy new supplies. Sherlock made some feeble attempts at cleaning his face and hands in the cistern and pulled on the least dirty and tattered hoodie he possessed before embarking on his shopping tour.

Brian was one of Sherlock´s oldest dealers and he knew his special customer long enough to still let the wretched looking junkie into his flat, knowing that despite Sherlock was absolutely fucked-up he was also still docile and only came when he could pay, never whinging to get something for free or trying to pay later or willing to pay with blow jobs or such.

It took Sherlock about an hour after finding the woman´s bag to reach the house where Brian lived and his brain was comfortably numb at that time due to his previous hit at the crypt. He felt exhilarated and joyous and looked very much forward to buying a larger amount of his liquid deliverance that he had been able in a long time.

The front door of Brian´s small terraced house was left ajar which was a bit uncommon but not suspicious. Sherlock flitted through and went straight to the tiny sitting room on the ground floor where the deals were usually made calling out Brian´s name and announcing himself.

Sherlock entered and immediately saw Brian lying flat on his back on the floor in front of the paltry coffee table. His chest was red with fresh blood and several small plastic bags filled with colourful pills or white powder were strewn around him. Sherlock rushed forward and sank down on his knees at Brian´s side stirring the shoulders of the man and trying to gain a reaction to see if he was still alive. It was as if the scene when he had found Sailor lying dead was cruelly repeated. He felt a flashback coming and his anxiety rose.

Sherlock was completely focused on Brian so that he didn´t hear the one approaching him from behind. As he looked up in confusion and terror he only saw a dark blur and felt something hard and blunt hitting the back of his head strongly and the fierce blow sent him collapsing onto his face and stomach at Brian´s side and the world went black instantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know, evil cliffhanger. Not sorry!  
> My lovely beta told me it is especially mean to write two cliffhangers in two timelines in a row, but, frankly, I like being mean.  
> Still not sorry 😊.


	13. ABDUCTION

So you can drag me through hell

If it meant I could hold your hand

I will follow you ´cause I´m under your spell

And you can throw me to the flames, I will follow you

Come sink into me and let me breathe you in

I´ll be your gravity, you be my oxygen

So dig two graves ´cause when you die

I swear I´ll be leaving by your side

Follow You, Bring me the Horizon

Sherlock woke up when his body was jostled around as the van took a bend rather quickly. He was lying belly upwards on the ground, his wrists were cuffed in front of his stomach, the ankles shackled but he was not blindfolded. He could still feel the aftertaste of the ether in his mouth he had been forced to inhale. It could not have been a large amount because he had obviously woken up not long after being sedated.

He slowly opened his eyes not willing to give away the fact that he was already conscious again. As soon as he got a glimpse of the bodyguard type like man next to him he let all pretence fall. He recognized his brother´s minions instantly.

_Dear God, Mycroft, I´m going to kill you. Devious, deceitful, despicable, dominance-seeking, daft dumb-ass! Why can´t you just call me if you seek an appointment like any other human being? How can you give John such a fright, he must have seen what happened to me…_

_Oh no, God, this is just one of his fucking awful tests. I wonder if John will take the money he´ll no doubt be offered. To stay away? To stay close? To spy on me, supervise me, make me behave?_

_Mycroft, if you scare him away I swear I´ll single-handedly tear down Whitehall stone by stone and make you choke on the dust of the rubble!_

Sherlock had a hard time to keep himself from spontanously self-combusting due to his rising, hot, white burning anger while he had to wait for the van to slow down and drop him off at whatever ridiculous site his arse of a brother had chosen to drag him to this time.

Sherlock had to wait for exactly nineteen whole minutes and 26 seconds lying on the uncomfortable ground of the van and being kept tied up like a parcel until finally one of the goons received a message to his ear-piece. Then, one of the other thugs unshackled him carefully and Sherlock scrambled indignantly to his feet and cursed loudly as he stumbled and hit his shoulder on the side of the van because his right foot was numb from the cuff which had interfered with his regular blood flow.

He felt livid with rage.

_Oh, I´ll really kill you this time. You won´t even spare me the utter embarrassment of being handled like a common criminal. I hate you, enemy mine._

He hobbled towards the door which led into a derelict warehouse (so cliché) and thought about an untraceable way to poison Mycroft´s tea. Or to get his bed to light up into flames while he was lying in it. Or to get him to choke on his cake, to impale him with his own stupid umbrella, to let him drown in a pond of goldfish… at least these thoughts brought him some kind of outlet for his pent-up ire.

Of course, his brother stood like the epitome of non-chalant intimidation in the middle of the sodding warehouse.

“Fuck you, Mycroft!“ Sherlock shouted towards the dramatically backlighted silhouette.

_Who are you trying to impress here, you moron? I´m really not in the mood for your childish games right now._

Sherlock was absolutely furious. He nearly ran towards Mycroft who remained standing placid and totally unperturbed in the middle of the run-down warehouse wearing his usual disdainful expression when he had to deal with situations he was appalled of. Like dealing with his wayward younger brother, for example.

“If you ever put me under with ether and abduct me like this again I swear I´ll do everything to kill you slowly and painfully! I´ll poison your cake and watch gleefully as you choke to death!“

Sherlock´s eyes were only narrow slits and a feral snarl was escaping the depth of his throat. He was literally shaking with anger and did not even try to uphold his usual cold and detached behaviour. After all this was his accursed brother and he should experience the full brunt of Sherlock´s immense ire. If air could burn it would have ignited spectacularly by now around Sherlock.

_How dare he do that to me in front of John!_

“Also a good day to you, brother mine“, Mycroft was completely unfazed by the sight of his raging younger brother who was about to explode in front of him.

Sherlock drew even closer to his sibling and looked him into his eyes while their noses all but touched and hissed, “How could you do this to me? Have you enjoyed your demonstration of power and superiority well enough? Humiliate me like that?“

Standing near to his accursed nemesis of a brother, Sherlock saw him trying to conceal that he was holding himself slightly crouched as if his stomach hurt.

_Has probably binged on cake again. Serves him right to develop gastric ulcers from all the sugary stuff._

“Would you have deigned to come if there had been made an appropriate invitation?“ Mycroft asked smoothly, took a step back from his seething brother and made a show of adjusting the chain of his pocket watch so that it formed a perfect half circle.

Sherlock only glowered at his elder brother, his mouth a timid thin line, piercing blue grey eyes bristling with wrath. He took up a rebellious stance, his arms akimbo. His whole expression made it quite clear that the answer would have been a decisive NO.

Mycroft just waited for Sherlock´s anger to wear off, watching him coolly with his usual dismissive expression that he always put on when he faced his fuming baby brother. They fell into their usual staring contest as neither of them wanted to make the first step in communicating with each other.

Finally Sherlock caved in and snarled, “What do you want of me?“

“I got informed about the apparently appalling state you´re in _again."_ Mycroft sneered and leisurely waved a hand towards Sherlock´s body, “I hoped you would stay clean longer this time.“

The detective retorted petulantly, “I may point out that I am _quite_ clean since I shaved and showered only a couple of hours ago and my clothes are freshly laundered. So there is nothing to be appalled of. Or is it just the fact that you presume me to behave socially inadequate? Not being such a conformer like you?“ Sherlock spat out the words like acid.

Mycroft only gave his brother a stern look and demanded fiercely, “Stop the childishness, Sherlock! Just give me the list!“

He hissed, “There is none to be given.“

“You promised me, brother mine, do you remember?“

“Of course I remember. You always _make_ me remember. You _never_ _ever_ would let me forget!“, Sherlock replied full of loathing.

Mycroft sighed in exasperation. “What have you taken this time?“

“Nothing at all!“ Sherlock looked into his brother´s eyes, trying to stare him down.

Mycroft´s patience suddenly ran out. With a surprisingly quick movement that one could hardly expect from such a bureaucrat like the elder Holmes, he grabbed his brother´s left hand firmly and deftly pushed up the sleeve of Sherlock´s battered sweatshirt. He was not even trying to be gentle.

“You´re showing quite a lot of fresh track marks for shooting “nothing“ up!“ Mycroft snarled and shoved Sherlock´s arm away followed by a disgusted snort. “Don´t you dare lie to me so bluntly!“

“Ah, for God´s sake, Mycroft, it is only _saline_! I needed my arm to show fresh punctures for a case. You have to control your CCTV minions better! Are you really so dense to be tricked by these false marks?“ He stared into the eyes of his elder brother with unconcealed hatred.

Mycroft flinched inwardly at the raw extent of the hate in Sherlock´s eyes but outwards he remained perfectly unimpressed, as always, and wondered briefly if the two of them could ever have an unprejudiced relationship. Possibly not, Mycroft thought, he´ll always resent me for my “meddling“ as he likes to call my efforts to keep him alive.

Instead he raised a disbelieving eyebrow and scoffed, “The state you are in beggars all description. Simply pathetic! Always the addict!“

Sherlock huffed. “Go ahead, take a blood sample and test it. I´m sure you have a vial close at hand by pure coincidence.“

Mycroft´s small gesture towards Anthea, who had silently observed the scene until now from some distance away, brought her to step up to Sherlock. She already held a syringe and test vials in her hand. She quickly and competently drew some blood out of Sherlock´s vein.

“I´ll run the quick tests now“, she stated and went off as the vials were filled.

The brothers waited for the results in vitriolic silence. Soon Sherlock began pacing to and fro, like an animal that desperately wanted to tear someone apart but was confined by the bars of its cage.

Several minutes later Anthea appeared again and nodded towards her employer. Only Sherlock who could read his brother like no one else noticed the relief flickering ever so shortly over his seemingly unperturbed face. As if he would ever admit being wrong in the first place.

“Of course I will have run a complete drug screening by a specialised lab later on.“

“Of course. You never trust me.“

“I never trust the _addict_ in you.“ Mycroft stated with a regretful tone underlying his even voice.

Silence fell as the brothers stared into each other´s eyes again, both of them trying to deduce what kind of thoughts were running through their unique brains.

Finally Sherlock blinked and inquired, “Did you enjoy humiliating me like that by the embarrassing abduction you staged?"

“No. It just came in handy to prove a point.“

Sherlock took the bait. “And what point exactly could that have been?“

“The way Dr. Watson would react if you were in evident danger.“

Sherlock´s whole body tensed, ready for a deadly attack in a second and his voice became a deep growl, more feral than human. “What have you done to John?“ 

Mycroft had to suppress very hard the urge to move backwards from the sheer menace that suddenly radiated from Sherlock as he recalled that his younger brother knew very well how to fight and kill efficiently if need be. But he managed to stay firm on his spot while his mouth contorted into a condescending knowing smile.

“You already feel protective about Dr. Watson. How _very_ telling! Are you also having sentiments for him?“

“Just fuck off Mycroft and leave me alone!“ Sherlock shouted and turned his back staring at the floor in front of his feet. He continued full of hard put-on aloof disdain. “I don´t _care_ for him. He helped me yesterday and it would be very ungrateful not to ask about the fate you have assigned to him“, Sherlock finished lightly and hoped that Mycroft did not see through his ruse.

The elder Holmes enquired politely but with a steely undertone, “Like when have you ever had the mood to express gratefulness towards another person helping you?“

“Like when someone simply _does it_ without judging or patronizing me. Or expecting to owe a debt to be repaid. Like you have done my whole life long.“ Sherlock turned around again and pierced Mycroft´s face with a hard look.

“Be careful, Sherlock. Don´t get involved too much. Dr. Watson is mentally unstable and a potentially dangerous man.“ Mycroft pointed the tip of his brolly towards his younger brother nearly poking him in the chest.

“Pah. That´s what people say of me, too. Sociopath, remember? Are we done?“ Sherlock turned and started to walk briskly away to the large sliding gates of the warehouse.

Mycroft´s voice was soft in his back. “Do you know that he followed you here in a cab, trying to save you from an apparent drug lord who abducted you because you owed him money?“

That stopped Sherlock short. He hunched his shoulders but turned around again and asked in a dangerously quiet voice. “Where is he?“

“Don´t worry. Your new admirer has been waiting for you in a car that will take you back to Baker Street. A good day to you, _brother mine_.“

Sherlock turned and strode gracefully towards the exit while shouting to his back, “Piss off, _enemy_ mine!“

“As always it has been a pleasure to meet you, little brother.“

“Not on my side. As always.“

John had been left locked up in the back of the cab. The brown haired woman had parked in front of a derelict warehouse and had vanished on clicking high heels into the building without any further acknowledgement of his existence. Instead of her, there was now a man guarding the car, meaning John, who had definitely a military background even if he was clad in a pristine suit. He was also clearly armed beneath his jacket.

If his abductor thought that this display would intimidate John, he could not have been more wrong. Since John excelled and thrived in dangerous situations because the adrenaline flooded his veins with bliss and excitement he was utterly calm and unafraid.

He recalled two similar incidents back in the province of Helmand when a band of thugs from the local warlord had ambushed his convoy and had tried to get a hold of hostages to blackmail the respective government. In fact the current circumstances just made John feel extremely angry on one side and on the other extremely protective towards Sherlock, strange as it might be since he really did not know much about the intriguing weirdo.

After all he had followed the van on an impulse to rescue him. John would really like to punch someone now to let off some steam.

_What has this stupid git gotten himself into? Does he still owe money to his ex(?) dealer? Or has this something to do with this rent boy murder business? Sadly I don´t have my gun. Anyway, I´ll give them a hell of a fight to get Sherlock out their greedy hands. If they damage these godly cheekbones…_

They let John wait for approximately five minutes before the woman came back, opened the door and showed him politely to a side entrance.

“Please go in, Dr. Watson, he will talk to you now.“

John did not dignify her with as much as a glance. He knew better than to ask whom he would be seeing as she would definitely not tell him anything. He straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin upwards and marched confidently into the gloom of the warehouse.

A tall silhouette was backlighted in the middle of the mostly empty space leaning onto an umbrella one could expect a classical Bond villain to have. John stepped in front of the man, stood automatically on attention, calm on the outside but inwards boiling with pent-up anger.

_What a melodramatic git._

“Good day to you, Dr. Watson. Very nice that you found the time for a little conversation between two gentlemen.“

The man had a distinguished posh voice and wore a traditional bespoke three piece suit that probably cost much more than John´s monthly army pension. His face carried a haughty expression of unchallenged superiority and the assessing stare which he directed at John let him feel like vermin. Which was exactly the right behaviour to quickly enrage an already angry John Watson even more.

 _Who the fuck does the wanker think he is dealing with? Insulting my intelligence with this stupid polite_ “ _gentleman“ talking. As if I had a choice._

John´s voice was steely and cold. “People who abduct other people are not gentlemen but common criminals.“

“Please don´t think of my polite request of meeting you in a quiet place as of an abduction. I only wanted to…“

John simply interrupted the man´s stilted prattling, too impatient for that kind of game. “Are you thinking you can impress me with this ridiculous mob-boss umbrella-posing of yours? Or do you have a hip problem and a mundane cane would clash with the picture of being gentlemanly that you so want to convey?“

The man was obviously not accustomed to being rudely interrupted but he controlled his facial expression, namely like having bitten into a very sour lemon, instantly. “Oh, I can assure you that it is much more than a simple umbrella.“ He lifted it upwards and looked thoughtfully at its tip.

“Jesus Christ, you don´t have a fucking rapier in it, do you? Are you sure that you´re living in the correct century? You don´t strike me to be the Errol Flynn type.“ John couldn´t help himself but he just laughed mirthlessly.

The man´s reply was indeed a bit surly now. “I can see why you get along with Sherlock Holmes as you share his unique proletarian rudeness.“

John stiffened instantly at hearing his friend´s name and he stepped closer to enter the abductor´s personal space. For a man who was several inches shorter, John managed to look naturally intimidating without even really trying. Every single muscle in his body was tense, being able to fight with an enemy in close combat any time. He had an itch to battle someone.

“What did you do to Sherlock?“ he growled.

The stranger did not answer or retreat but kept staring along his nose scrutinizing down at John. It was unnerving but the doctor did not shrink away from it. He licked his lips and clenched both fists.

“Listen, if he owes you money for the drugs he has taken I´m willing to…“, John trailed off.

The suit-man raised a condescending eyebrow, a gesture that reminded John of someone else he could not remember right now and asked with a hint of incredulity. “You will what? Pay his debts? This is very… generous of you.“

_Fuck, I knew it… stupid junkie!_

John became a bit worried. “How much is it?“

But the man shook his head slightly, “And this is also utterly stupid of you to offer something like that without knowing anything about the circumstances.“

“Trying to help people is not stupid!“ John groused. Why did he have to have this kind of argument again? This posh wannabe Blofield shared Sherlock´s point of view concerning altruism. Bastard!

“For someone who barely knows Sherlock you are acting very protective of him already.“

„I just don´t like people being abducted like that“, John also did not like the feeling that he was forced to explain his behaviour to this… _arse_ , “and being at the mercy of people like you!“

“But still you decided in a second to follow him in a cab. Did you plan for a rescue mission?“

The man finally stepped away from John and brushed some imaginative lint from the left shoulder before turning his stare onto John again.

“Well, he seems to get himself into perilous circumstances very quickly. He might have needed my help.“

Suit-man sneered. “Which you were inclined to offer so selflessly assuming that Sherlock is worth rescuing at all. What did you expect to gain in return?“

“Everyone is worth rescuing. It´s never about gaining something.“ This allegation was downright insulting. It was the helping issue all over again.

“You are severely misunderstanding how the world works.“

"Well that might be true in yours but definitely not in mine.“ John clenched his fists tighter and his shoulders trembled with anger while he glared back at the man.

_What kind of egotistic wanker is this?_

After a short pause and still staring at John suit-man asked quietly. “What exactly did Sherlock do to rescue _you_?“

John was thrown by the sudden turn the conversation made. Had he somehow missed a part of it? His ocean blue eyes widened in surprise, utterly baffled. “Come again?“

The man took an expensive looking notebook out of his pocket and thumbed idly through it in fake concentration.

John got a recollection of Christmas when he was a child and his parents had hired someone to be Santa Clause. The man had also leafed gravely through a similar notebook and had given John and his sister a stern look meaning to intimidate them into behaving better. It had not worked then and it definitely did not work now.

“Your therapist is convinced that you are suicidal and might give up any time because you are unable to find a reason to carry on with living. Your psychosomatic limp has ceased as well as the intermittent tremor in your hand. Is the danger Sherlock carries around the reason you want to live again and thrive so suddenly?“

_Well, that did work._

John was shellshocked by this extremely precise deduction. It had taken himself a couple of days to figure that out. And yet this stranger had come to the same conclusion in mere minutes and he seemed to know everything about him.

_How the fuck does he know what Ella writes about me?_

John silently re-evaluated his counterpart. This man definitely was dangerous, in the way of an alligator. Looking fat and lazy but able to kill in the blink of an eye.

“How can you fucking know that?“ Anger rose deep down in John´s stomach.

“Knowing is my primary occupation. Are you aware that Sherlock is mentally unstable and a very dangerous individual? You have already developed a sense of loyalty to someone who doesn´t have friends despite your trust issues.“

“I know enough to follow him to his abductor apparently.“ John replied plainly through gritted teeth and then another disconcerting thought crossed his mind.

“Wait, so you sent a cab after the van to see if I would follow Sherlock? That´s all a sort of test of, what, my personality?“ John´s fist clenched again at his side. He´d really like to hit the pompous prick on the nose.

A sort of pleased look stole across the man´s face.

“I have to admit that I am surprised, you are quite observant Dr. Watson, despite your average and nondescript looks. Definitely of above average intelligence. Which is not much, of course.“

“Who are you?“ Another wave of anger washed through John.

“Sherlock would say I am his arch nemesis. Someone whom you should be direly afraid of if you ever decide to hurt Sherlock Holmes in any way.“

“So what?“

_Now this was getting above ridiculous._

“I´m interested in what Sherlock is doing. Since you like to be acquainted with him would you keep me informed what he is up to?“

“Why should I?“

“Because you could use the money I am willing to offer.“

_Oh, mate, wrong answer. Who the fuck does he think he is? Is it his habit to buy people to spy for him? And he just believes I´ll do it because I´m, what, short of money?_

“My finances are really none of your business and neither is Sherlock.“

John felt severely insulted. He had enough of this stupid charade suddenly. So he abruptly turned on his heels and walked briskly towards the exit.

“Sherlock has always been my business and I will never stop worrying about him. He is a walking talking battlefield. He is the war that you miss so desperately.“ The man called after him.

John stopped dead in his tracks and turned slowly around with a murderous expression in his eyes and a tiny but menacing smile on his lips. He walked back towards the man and finally all the pent-up rage, ire and anger needed an outlet.

_Fuck you!_

John smiled benignly. “I reconsidered my answer.“

Suit-man looked smugly pleased. He obviously expected to get his way because he always did.

Without any further indication of what he was up to, John suckerpunched the bastard viciously into the stomach. As a doctor he knew exactly where to strike to render the obnoxious bastard speechless. He heard the air being exhaled unwillingly out of his counterpart´s lungs as well as the shocked silence that followed as the pain spread through suit-man´s body.

John´s smile was a mile wide as he left the warehouse miraculously unhindered.


	14. SUSPECT

I don´t know how I got this way, I´ll never be alright

So I´m breaking the habit, I´m breaking the habit tonight

I´ll paint it on the walls, ´cause I´n the one at fault

I´ll never fight again, and this is how it ends

Breaking the Habit, Linkin Park

_In the past_

When Sherlock´s senses started flowing slowly back he found himself lying flat on his stomach on the grimy wooden floor of Brian´s sitting room. The backside of his head was pounding away in angry waves of rolling pain and Sherlock remembered that something heavy had hit him there.

No, _someone_ had hit him there.

He opened his eyes only to be nearly blinded by the flickering of the neon light above him. He tasted coppery blood in his mouth where he must have bitten down on the inside of his cheek, now recalling more and more what had happened before when the blow had hit his head and that he had collapsed face first to the ground where he had been crouching at the side of Brian´s prone body.

Which led him to crane his head and see if the corpse, for that was what Brian had become actually, was still there. It did and it sported three broad and bloody stab wounds in the chest and since the blood had begun to coagulate in the meantime, Sherlock must have been unconscious for quite a while.

He scrambled to get up on his feet but only managed to draw his legs under his belly and shove himself up onto his hands and knees. His hands felt weird supporting his weight and looking down at them he saw the reason for the uncomfortable position. In his right hand he held a reusable metal syringe, its now empty ampule sporting a “7% Cocaine Solution“ label, while the fingers of his left hand were firmly pressed around the hilt of a knife. A knife that wasn´t his and a knife with a bloodstained blade. A knife with a blade that fitted perfectly into the wounds in Brian´s chest.

Sherlock rose a bit more to come to sit on his heels and knees and glanced around himself in rising bewilderment. He was dizzy as hell and his vision just a blurry picture of reality. A broken chair leg rested at his left side in between Brian and him. Something was definitely off. He saw a fresh haematoma at the inside of his left inner arm where the cocaine solution had been injected amateurishly.

_Did I do that? Can´t be, when I´m injecting there´s never such a bruise because I always hit my veins with unfailing precision and I don´t pierce right through them like a bloody imbecilic beginner._

_I can´t remember shooting up here. I´m not into overdosing and I already had a hit before I came here. But I feel really great right now. Really exorbitantly unbelievably fucking brilliant. I am always brilliant, of course._

_Brilliant William Sherlock Scott Holmes that´s who I am._ _Brilliance personified._

Sherlock became aware that he was on more than his usual high. Obviously he had a double dosage of gleeful beatitude in his bloodstream. His transport floated on sugary waves of padded bliss with the certain knowledge of his inherent invincibility rushing through his circulatory system. Whereas his brain was soaring high above it all, all senses keen sharp precise like they´ve never been before on a single dosage of cocaine.

In this moment two things happened at the same time.

First, Sherlock realized strangely detached from himself with a cold calculating accuracy (thanks to the double injection of cocaine) that this was a set-up to make him look like Brian´s murderer which was decidedly _a bit_ _not good_.

Second, he heard the police shouting and storming in through the wide open front door which was decidedly _absolutely not good_.

Sherlock was still kneeling besides Brian with the murder weapon held in his hand whose existence he had forgotten in the meantime. He was so preoccupied with marvelling at his supernaturally precise senses and also mesmerized by the colourful visuals his brain supplied. He craned his head to see several officers entering into the room, blinking rapidly and a dopey smile on his lips.

The first officer, a bulky man in his mid-twenties with a ridiculous pony-tail hairdo rushed towards him and demanded he should let go of the knife and get down on his knees immediately.

“I am already on my knees, you moron!“, Sherlock griped.

His scathing insult was rewarded with a heavy booted foot in his back that kicked him down onto his stomach again. A beefy knee was driven into the ribs on his back, a brutal hand clawed into his greasy hair and slammed his head hard onto the floor, holding him down in a steely grip.

Sherlock grunted unwillingly as the air was squeezed out of his lungs like water from a sponge and he felt his upper lip tearing as it hit his own front teeth while his nose crunched with a sickening noise and started to bleed.

_Oh shit! So much for the inherent invincibility issue… what a brute dumb stupid utter arse!_

“N´air, geddofme, cn´t breaz!“ Sherlock wheezed.

He tried to inhale but the considerable pressure of the knee in his back made it very difficult.

“Miller, let go and just cuff him!“ a calm distinguished voice commanded.

The knee vanished and Sherlock was roughly turned onto his back and his hands were cuffed in front of him. Officer Miller was intentionally manhandling Sherlock as he grabbed the chain that linked the cuffs and yanked brutally at it to pull Sherlock upwards onto his feet.

A yelp of pain escaped Sherlock´s mouth as the metal cut into his thin wrists, bruising them instantly. Blood kept dripping from his nose and formed a curious circular pattern on his already filthy and stained hoodie.

He tried to stand but either a sudden decrease in his blood pressure or the effect of the cocaine made it impossible, his balance and sense of spatial perception was totally off. He swayed on the spot, his formerly relaxed muscles now convulsing and quivering. He breathed heavily and inadvertently stumbled forwards against police officer Miller.

“Stay off me, you dirty piece of shit!“ Miller cried out disgusted and shoved Sherlock abruptly away against the nearby wall which at least prevented him from toppling over.

Sherlock whimpered as the back of his injured head hit the wall and he slipped down on it, collapsing into an awkward pile of dangling trembling limbs on the floor. He cradled his head in his long fingered and cuffed hands to protect it from further blows.

“God damn it, Miller! He shows no resistance, so no violence! What are you? A bruiser or an officer? Get out, now!“ The formerly calm voice was irritated and annoyed.

The interfering voice belonged to an elderly man with short brown and grey hair and a restrained but open face that looked unfazed down onto the pathetic human heap at his feet.

“I´m Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard. We arrest you under the strong suspicion of committed murder. Do you understand what I am saying?“

The D.I. gazed inquiringly down at his suspect trying to size him up. The bloke just stared up at him wide eyed and clearly dazed. He sniffed several times because the blood kept dripping out of his bruised nose onto his tattered and dirty hoodie. In a quick once over the D.I. took in the suspect´s appearance.

_Oh my God, he´s a junkie, loads of track marks on both arms, sweaty, emaciated and so totally gone he can´t even stand. Still quite young. Has no idea what happens because he´s high as a kite. Definitely homeless as well._

“What´s your name? Do you know where you are?“

The sniffing mess on the floor continued gazing unfocused at the D.I., not comprehending anything at all. He quivered and started moaning silently while he blinked manically and turned his head to and fro to look uncertainly at his surroundings.

“Here, wipe your nose.“ The D.I. tossed a tissue into the junkie´s lap.

_Jesus, he´s really completely fucked up._

The junkie took the tissue slowly into his cuffed hands and pressed it against his bleeding nose. He tried to stand up and failed miserably.

D.I. Lestrade hesitated a moment but then with an exasperated snort he grabbed his hands under the addict´s armpits and heaved him upright, emitting a low grunt.

“God, you reek! Can you stand now?“

The addict leant heavily against the wall which gave him enough stability to remain standing on trembling legs, twitching his hands in a manic way.

“Head ´urts. Got ´it.“ He slurred and did not look at the D.I.`s face.

“What has happened? Why did you kill him?“

“I´nt kill ´im.“

“Oh, come on! Who did then?“

“Dunno. Yet.“

“You´re up shit creek, you understand that?“

“Ngh.“

The junkie cautiously raised his head which must be in a considerable amount of pain from the blow he´d received with the chair leg and also hitting the wall. The D.I. caught a view of a pair of bloodshot, deeply sunken in eyes with wide blown pupils.

_Oh shit! He´s totally drugged up. Way down the road of addiction. No use to talk to him right now. At least he doesn´t collapse again._

But to Lestrade´s great surprise he noticed that these extraordinary pale blue-grey eyes assessed him suddenly with a piercingly bright intelligence which was absolutely unexpected. Then the momentary flash of brilliance was gone a second later and the strange eyes became unfocused and veiled again giving way to their initial expression of a crazed drug induced stupor.

_Now what the fuck? Something´s off with him, did I really see that assessing stare, lucid and intelligent? That´s an uncanny bloke! Well anyway…_

“Get this sorry bugger out of my sight!“ The Detective Inspector barked, feeling strangely aggravated.

He watched, awkwardly transfixed by the presence of this peculiar addict, when the young female officer named Sally Donovan lead the poor sod away. He saw how she wrinkled her nose in distaste as she had to touch the junkie and smelled the stench emanating from his neglected body. He saw him trembling, staggering and swaying, unable to walk in a straight line. High as a kite.

Lestrade was disgusted how one could sink so low but also felt a wave of pity for such a wasted life. Even more he felt himself being inexplicably intrigued by the man.

_He is still so young. And he´s just killed someone. For money and drugs._

Sherlock let himself be shoved out of the room and continued to play the dumb addict, mumbling incoherantly and looking around in a confused and delusional way. The unasked for double amount of cocaine had elevated his brain capacity to an all-time high (double meaning intended) and it raced with deductions and strategies how to get out of this mess.

Sherlock was on the peak of lucidity and his quick assessment of the D.I. had shown a competent, not too prejudiced and most of all intelligent man. He could work well with that when he would explain to him what really happened to Brian and who had killed him which Sherlock had already figured out.

Sadly, his transport proved to be a problem. Sherlock did not have to stage the stumbling and staggering though. His body was really out of motoneuronal control and he seemed to be more than a little concussed by the blow on his head, too.

The disgruntled female officer, whom Sherlock deduced in mere seconds,

_not long in service, eager to show her abilities, hates criminals and loves to help justice get its way, determined to prove herself in a mostly male job, tries very hard to be not only good but great,_

who was ordered to lead him away obviously despised and loathed him from the very first moment she laid eyes on him. Which was very convenient for the escape plan Sherlock had already devised.

After they arrived at New Scotland Yard, Sherlock was immediately brought into an interrogation room where he had to wait and remaining handcuffed.

_Trying to make me nervous, obviously. So dull._

After about half an hour the D.I. and the young female officer re-entered the room and stood in front of him. They glared down at him in an effort to make him feel inferior.

_So boring. So stupid._

The D.I. and the woman played bad cop and good cop,

_Actually it should be the other way round, would be much more convincing_

alternating in menacing him with the consequences of not admitting to his crime and coaxing him with the offering of coffee, cigarettes and taking off the cuffs if he should finally talk to them.

_How predictable. Moronic. Bring me to my cell so I can get out of here. Fucking tedious._

_Idiots._

Sherlock said nothing at all and did not react to either of them in any way. He remained stubbornly silent and conveyed an air of utter derangement by mumbling nonsense to himself, laughing manically now and then and staring blearily at the walls. After about twenty minutes they gave up and the D.I. ordered Officer Donovan to escort him to a holding cell for sobering up before they would try to question him again.

On their way to the basement officer Sally Donovan did her best to avoid any physical contact with the loathsome junkie that lurched in front of her. Yet, she was glad that the wretched creature showed no resistance towards her orders of go left, straight on, into the elevator and so on, finding their way to the cell where he would be securely locked up. She was also quite relieved that he was docile all the way and even managed to walk in nearly straight lines and only occasionally bumped against the wall of the long corridors.

However, when they came near to the holding cell the junkie became more and more agitated and his low rambling got louder. As Sally stopped in front of his designated cell and opened the door the addict suddenly panicked. He began to shriek and wail like a madman, exclaiming things, shouting loudly.

“No, not lock in!“

“Don´t jail me!“

“I´ll die if confined.“

The junkie started to pant, he pulled at his matted black curls, bit into his bruised lower lip and raised his hands in a conjuring manner towards her now downright begging and whining. Sally Donovan was taken by surprise by the addict´s sudden an unexpected agitation so that she only stared disbelievingly at him, unsure how to react to this embarrassing display.

Seeing her hesitation the pathetic sod jumped forward and seized her jacket with his cuffed hands, then burrowed his head on her chest, begging desperately for mercy. His behaviour was disgusting. It was humiliating and mortifying beyond belief.

Sally reacted by mere instinct and she wanted to get away from this horrible mess of a human being as quickly as possible. She yanked away the junkie´s hands and shoved him fiercely against his bony shoulders, sending him stumbling backwards into the cell where he fell down on the floor in a wailing heap. Sally instantly slammed the door shut and ran along the corridor to the next toilet to wash her hands frantically in an attempt to purge all potentially lingering… substances from the junkie.

When Sherlock heard the sounds of Sally´s running feet quieting he became absolutely still, got up and grinned broadly. He had exactly estimated how the eager female officer would react to his histrionic performance of a pathetically whining nutter. He knew that she would feel debased by him touching her and would be utterly disgusted so that she would not notice his nimble fingers sneaking about her pockets to nick the bunch of keys she carried. He also foresaw correctly that she would flee and forget to lock the door to his room.

On his way to the basement Sherlock had surveyed the building exactly pertaining to the locations of the CCTV cameras. He was quite astonished as well as genuinely pleased to find out that down here was only one at the beginning of the basement corridor, a camera that moved in an angle that could be avoided easily.

Sherlock took the stolen keys, opened his handcuffs and then the door of his cell from the inside, slipped out, closed it again, locked it in a sudden surge of spitefulness, then crept along the corridor and – _vanished_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, I did it again… I do so love cliffhangers! 😀


	15. PROPOSAL

If my heart could sing, would you stay? Would you stay and listen?

If my soul was torn, would you help? Would you try and fix me?

Would you help un-break me?

Your smile it eats me alive, and I can´t turn away any longer

Every breath you take, I watch you slip away

You´re slowly killing yourself

I won´t give in

I won´t give in, Asking Alexandria

_In the past_

D.I. Gregory Lestrade´s mood had become rather gloomy over the last two and a half hours.

First, he was severely pissed off that this junkie scum had escaped out of the holding cell at all. They had wanted to question him again after an hour only to find out that he had mysteriously disappeared out of a supposedly locked room.

Second, as a short talk to one of the men who helped Officer Donovan in the search had confirmed, the little piece of shit was still untraceable.

_Is he Houdini or what? High as a kite? Did he just fly away?_

He might be gone over the hills by now, so Lestrade had to roll out a manhunt and an arrest warrant because they had to get hold of their murder suspect again. Greg really hated paperwork. And giving explanations to his superior. And suspects on the run.

_Well, the junkie has to be the murderer without a shadow of doubt, so forget the “suspect“! Junkies that highly addicted are always short of money and drugs so why not rob one´s dealer of both. The killing could have been an accident, but please, he still had held the fucking bloodied knife in his hand when we found him._

Third, his short meeting with a D.I. of the narcotics division and the following sharing of intelligence relating to the deceased dealer Brian Hambly had brought no further helpful information concerning _who_ the tosser they had arrested was. All of that was utterly frustrating and annoying.

_Maybe he simply couldn´t remember his own name drugged as he had been. But now he is just gone._ _Jesus, it started like such an easy case… I would have been home by now and watch football on my sofa with a nice cool beer, having ordered a pizza…_

He sighed. Well there was no way around to facing the paperwork then.

After all the fingerprints of his mysterious junkie had been in the police files, matching with a pair that had been found in a case of a murdered fence a couple of months ago, sadly not linked to a name, but this murderer had already been found guilty and convicted so that was a dead end, too. His suspect had probably only been in the house to sell some stolen goods for buying drugs.

So as the D.I. stomped back to his office in New Scotland Yard he was particularly angry, irritated and on the edge of snapping at everyone who dared to cross his way. He entered his office in a huff and hung his coat on a hook at the back of the door before he turned around to go and sit down behind his desk and start with the sodding paperwork.

Only to see that his chair was already occupied.

Occupied by the junkie that was untraceable.

_Well not untraceable any more since he is obviously here. In MY chair. Occupying it. Or rather not only occupying but more like lolling in it. Like owning it, like residing perfectly comfortable and relaxed in MY fucking chair._

The suspect was not surprised at all as the D.I. entered, not startled by him being discovered, instead his whole posture emanated an air of calm arrogant superiority that was not faked but genuinely felt. He looked straight and expectantly into Lestrade´s face without blinking. Piercingly pale blue-grey eyes observing and calculating every tiny detail about the D.I. who felt most uncomfortable under this dissecting scrutiny.

_What the fuck? Of all possible places the sucker decided to hide here? Oh, he studies me like an insect under a microscope. Highly observant. Really creepy. Not surprised nor anxious that I spotted him._

_No, please don´t tell me that he did wait for me here…_

The junkie nodded his head slightly in a polite greeting manner and said nonchalantly in a deep posh voice pronouncing the words perfectly without any slurry drugged drawl.

_“_ Ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Are you finally joining me?“

_“_ What?“

Greg was so baffled that he kept standing frozen in the middle of his room and could only gape at the other. Thinking proved to be difficult, like wading through a pool of honey.

“I didn´t expect it would take you so long to come over and find me here. Waiting is so boring!“

The voice sounded impatient and indignant, as if a dawdling vassal had let his Lordship down.

“I expected you to run away once you escaped“, Lestrade blurted out. It was hard for him to process the weird situation.

_What an audacious bugger! I let his Highness wait?_ _Rather his high-ness, ohhh shit..._

The acrimonious retort followed instantly.

“But you have to know that would have been utterly pointless. Even if I were physically capable of _running_ away, which I am definitely not in my current intoxicated state, I would have had half of New Scotland Yard on my back which would have been excruciatingly tiresome to get rid of and finally who could prove my innocence to you better than myself? Certainly not one of _your lot_.“

Over the rant his deep rumbling voice had gained more and more self-confident brazenness that was barely sufferable as the D.I. sullenly noticed.

“What??“

_I have never heard such an arrogant posh speaking out of a filthy junkie´s mouth._

“Oh please! I know that you are a suitably capable police detective but you´re only just as good as the reports your imbecilic co-workers give to you.“

A condescending sneer contorted a perfect cupid´s bow.

“What!!“

_Impossible insolent wanker!_

“Are you aware that you use the question “What“ an awful lot? Makes you sound rather stupid.“

Greg received an irritated look out of squinted pale eyes that were still bloodshot but clearly focused and with a highly intelligent brain behind them.

“Fuck you! What are you doing in my office anyway?“ Greg finally wrestled himself out of his stunned speechlessness.

_Why don´t I just throw the arse back into a cell?_

Lestrade was strangely transfixed by the behaviour this extraordinary addict was showing. The iridescent eyes seemed to force the D.I.´s willpower to submit and he stayed petrified on the spot like the hare in front of the snake.

_A force of nature devastating everything in its wake, leaving the watchers in frightful awe._

“ _What_ again!“ The addict scoffed. “Obviously I have been reviewing the evidence of the murder which you so comfortably and conveniently assumed I have committed because I´m a little bit strung-out.“

_A little bit strung-out? That´s the understatement of the year!_

Greg only realized then that his desk was littered with papers and files, photos and evidence bags that had been scattered all over it. Some were even on the floor.

_It just gets better and better…_

“So what, you deny being the murderer? And get your filthy hands off my files!“

Greg stepped around his desk to loom over the junkie who only coolly adjusted the angle of Greg´s swivel chair so that he could look boldly upwards to the D.I. The addict sighed and eyed Greg with a look one would give an exceptionally stupid child.

“I´m innocent which I will prove if you would now simply stop asking “What“, sit down and just listen to me.“

“What…?“

The junkie gave Greg a raised eyebrow and a formidable “Don´t be so daft“ look and waved a long delicate and quite dirty hand towards the chair opposite of him.

Greg growled with barely suppressed anger “Get out of my chair!“ and returned a likewise formidable “Obey or I´ll make you very sorry“ look.

The D.I. glowered down at the junkie who finally sniffed petulantly but deigned to stand up, shuffled around the desk and slumped himself into the other seat. Greg let himself fall into his.

“You think that because you´re sitting where you are, and I am sitting where I am, that you are in control of what is about to happen. You´re mistaken. I am in control, because I know things that you don´t know“, the addict said haughtily and steepled his hands in front of his chin.

The D.I. didn´t bother to comment to that but huffed and stated dryly in spite of being quite pissed off by the obvious fact.

“You´re much more intelligent than you seem at first look.“

A self-satisfied smirk flickered across the junkie´s face and his pale eyes lit up.

Lestrade grimaced. “You played dumb on us. Quite convincingly as I loathe to admit. Tricked me into believing that you´re totally drugged up and utterly brainless.“

The addict chuckled and replied with a smile. “I _am_ totally drugged up but otherwise… yes.“

“So I didn´t imagine that scrutinizing look you gave me in the dealer´s sitting room?“

“No, you noticed that immediately and correctly so you´re also much more intelligent than you seem on first look as well.“

The D.I. harrumphed. He wasn´t sure if he should feel insulted or pleased by that backhanded compliment. Instead he asked “How much did I underestimate you?“

“Tremendously.“ A very smug grin followed.

Greg snorted.

“Don´t be so upset. Everyone does.“

“Is that so?“

“Yes. People see a fucked up junkie and automatically assume an utter lack of any intelligence. You let your judgment be clouded by prejudice due to my physical appearance.“ The junkie pointed his index finger at the D.I. accusingly.

“Which is absolutely repulsive by the way.“ Greg added disparagingly. “So you´re not just the average messed up junkie?“

The caustic remark didn´t seem to faze the addict at all.

“Nicely put. I am better.“

“At what?“

“Everything!“

Greg watched his counterpart with stunned eyes and a wry sneer. “You´re quite the modest type, are you?“

The other pouted. “No need for sarcasm. Now I request again you´d kindly listen to me as I will explain first how I have been tricked into looking like the murderer since I couldn´t have killed Brian and second I will reveal who really did it.“

“What???“

The addict shot an exhausted eye roll at the D.I. before he dragged himself to his feet again and ambled around the desk to stand beside the police officer. He quickly arranged some of the crime scene photos in front of an ever more incredulously gawking D.I.

“Are you paying attention? Good. If you are not listening carefully, you will miss things. Important things. I will not pause, I will not repeat myself and you will not interrupt me. Now take a look at this.“

The junkie´s voice rumbled imperiously as he started to shoot off his deductions in rapid-fire mode while his spidery fingers tipped so fast at the respective pieces of evidence that Greg got dizzy from merely watching his hand.

“My head wound is incongruent to the fight which believing the theory of this utterly moronic forensic idiot Anderson happened between me and Brian. The blow was applied from top downwards as I kneeled beside Brian from behind me. Due to the angle Brian couldn´t have applied it to me, it had to be done by a third person.

Brian was left-handed, plenty of evidence for that in his flat if you only had been looking thoroughly, but the chair leg with which I´ve been hit was in his right hand, so again wrong.

I´m currently injecting into my ankles since the veins in my arms are obviously too rigid and too collapsed for proper puncturing and I´m definitely good enough with both hands to not pierce through them and produce a haematoma like you can see in my elbow. So, I didn´t inject myself with the metal syringe at all. If you would just take a look at the ampule you would find the murderer´s fingerprints there. He wiped the syringe only outwards and pressed my fingertips onto it.

This Anderson is truly abysmal at his job.

Placing the knife in my left hand is absolute rubbish, it does not correlate with the angle of the stab wounds on Brian´s torso and my height and I´m right-handed.

The police report states an anonymous phone caller claiming a murder had happened and the killer is still in the house, unconscious. Meaning that the caller must have been there in the house. Check for fingerprints in the old telephone booth around the corner, the call has been made from there.

Next, the murderer knew me since he chose a 7% cocaine solution to inject me with. He could have used anything else, Brian sold heroin, cocaine powder, crystal meth and all sorts of pills as well. But the killer wanted to be clever and knew my favourite dosage form, which is rare by the way, and also knew where Brian stored it. Look for fingerprints in the topmost kitchen drawer to the left and get the metal cereal box with the ampules.

If I were you, I would replace this Anderson-berk as soon as possible.

The killer hid behind the door of the sitting room, he couldn´t have ambushed me otherwise. Look for his hair, he must have pressed himself pretty close to the wall since the space there is very small.

Ergo, the murderer ambushed me from behind as I kneeled beside Brian trying to help him, hit me from top down on my head with the chair leg. Injected me with the cocaine then placed the chair leg, syringe and knife where you found them, called the police and left.“

The addict had rattled on the whole time, seemingly not having to breathe in between at all. Now though he was inhaling deeply and uttered a satisfied sigh. He looked expectantly at the D.I. and raised an eyebrow as if to say “Did you get that?“

Gregory Lestrade blinked heavily. “That was absolutely brilliant.“

The junkie´s eyes widened in surprise as if he hadn´t expected any praise at all.

“Oh! Well, um, good… so now you´re finally convinced of my innocence?“

Greg gnashed his teeth, still more than a bit annoyed and disgruntled that he had so obviously failed to get the evidence right but he admitted it reluctantly.

“Yes. Meaning only innocent concerning the death of Brian Hambly. Do you have a name by the way? I can´t always think of you as “the fucking junkie“ or “the stupid wanker“. Or can´t you remember?“

“Hmph. Name´s Sherlock.“

Lestrade wheezed.

“It really is!“ Sherlock grumbled, feeling insulted.

Greg sighed. “Is there anything ordinary about you?“

Sherlock pouted. “I´m afraid not“ and held up his hands in an apologizing gesture while he shrugged his shoulders.

The D.I. gestured to Sherlock´s slightly trembling fingers and stated firmly “You´re in withdrawal.“

Sherlock looked thoughtfully at his hands. “No, not yet. Those tremors are much worse. Actually these stem from me being close to an overdose as the murderer injected me with another dose of cocaine only one hour after my last hit.“

“Do you need a doctor?“ Greg asked and suddenly felt strangely concerned of the junkie´s well-being.

“No. I´m fine. Very lucid indeed. My brain is working perfectly and I absolutely need all my mental skills at maximum capacity to prove to you next who the actual murderer is. But I don´t have much time left as the increased dose of cocaine will start to wear off in approximately 23 minutes. And then I´ll be of no use since I usually slide into incoherence or unconsciousness for some hours.“

He explained that without showing any shame or regret.

This answer really baffled Greg. “You calculate the pharmaceutical effects of the drugs you use? To the minute?“

_The insane git seems to know exactly what he does to himself but is perfectly comfortable with the way how far his addiction has already proceeded. Collapsed veins and all._

“My brain is calculating and assessing all the time if I don´t put it to rest with morphine or heighten its thought processes and alleviate boredom with cocaine.“

“What!!“

A deep sigh escaped Sherlock´s chest. “So, shall we begin?“

Sally Donovan had spent an hour and a half with frantic searching for that little piece of shit that had somehow inexplicably managed to escape out of a locked cell. She soon realized that the wanker had pickpocketed her as he had staged this mortifying meltdown while grabbing at her and then let himself out with the stolen keys.

What she did not understand however was how the arse could have been able to sneak out of the building without having been discovered. She had had the security staff check through the CCTV footage of all the cameras that were positioned at the exits of New Scotland Yard but the tosser was nowhere to be seen.

She and two other officers that could be spared had turned the place upside down, searching the basement with the holding cells thoroughly and all the other possible hiding places but without avail. Exasperated and humiliated by her embarrassing mistake that had caused the loss of their murder suspect and at the end of her wits she went to her D.I.´s office to admit her failure.

Bracing herself she knocked and opened the door to his office without waiting to be invited in since she expected to be scolded anyway and the D.I. had every right to do so. She entered with three quick steps to stand in front of Lestrade´s desk. Looking upwards she pressed out through gritted teeth

“Sir, there´s no trace of the fucking junkie…“

and stopped dead as she really took in what she was looking at. She felt like being hit by a bus in her chest, exhaled loudly and forgot to breathe or close her mouth for several seconds, unable to believe the scene that unfolded itself in front of her wide-blown eyes.

There, behind Lestrade´s desk, stood absolutely relaxed and fully at ease with himself the stupid junkie she had so desperately searched for. Even more so he was standing right next to her D.I., in fact so very close that their shoulders and hips touched. Both had clasped their inner hands onto a large photo of the crime scene in the dealer´s house, looking at it intensely as the addict was pointing at something with his right hand in which he kept hold of the evidence bag that contained the morphine syringe. Both men had raised their heads simultaneously and were now staring at her in surprise as well as annoyance as if she had interrupted a profound and important conversation they had been completely immersed in.

“Not now, Donovan!“ the D.I. growled.

The junkie had taken off his hoodie in the meantime which now hung thrown haphazardly over the back of Lestrade´s office chair and Sally saw the ragged and stained grey tee that he wore underneath which inadvertently emphasized the emaciation of his body, the pale and slightly sweaty skin in stark contrast to the multitude of colourful track marks which disgraced the crumbling veins of his inner arms.

Seeing both men standing so close together side by side was the epitome of contradiction: on one side the sturdy, healthy, dapper as well decent looking Detective Inspector, on the other side the strung-out, tremor-ridden skeletal mess of a filthy junkie.

But one thing united them, bound them and that was their shared excitement of crime-solving which shone out of both their keen intelligent eyes: warm brown versus cold blue-grey. They quickly stuck their heads together again, intimate like mates that had known each other for a lifetime and ignored Sally instantly as the junkie resumed on explaining something in rapid-fire mode about how the drug dealer Brian Hambly had died, who had been his murderer, where to find all the evidence for the killing and last but not least where to find the obvious killer himself.

Sally stood in the middle of the room, frozen, transfixed, glued to the spot as she tried hard to follow the amazing deductions the addict made. He drew logical connections where nobody would see any links. He deduced every tiny bit of the who-what-when-where-why and how concerning the crime. He had memorized every detail of the police reports. He knew the exact place of every object in every photo of the crime scene.

Even more so, he was definitely innocent of the murder and Sally felt like an utterly stupid prat for not seeing that herself. The junkie was absolutely high on cocaine but still or rather in spite of that he made his deductions all look effortless, easy, simple, _obvious_. Sally wished she had his mental abilities.

She envied him.

So much!

_He should not be able to do this. This talent is wasted on him! He´s just a disgusting junkie! It´s so unfair!_ _He_ _is brilliant. A genius. A prodigy. And he is shooting up drugs since God-knows-when and still does it like it´s nothing more than average logical thinking. Compared to him we are all simpletons. God, I hate him! This fucking freak!_

After a seemingly never-ending succession of observations and deductions the junkie suddenly stopped as he reached the end of his stunning monologue. Only then he seemed to register the presence of another person in the office. He blinked several times in rapid succession and then fixed his stare firmly at Sally, his former sharply focused eyes now obscured by a soft glaze with flashing huge black pupils. He seemed to have a little bit of difficulty to remember who Sally was. Another thing that would be added to the amount of hatred that piled up inside Sally´s brain towards this arse.

_He doesn´t recognize it´s me who put him into the cell and whom he humiliated by stealing the keys from. Letting me search for him. Making me look like a fucking beginner!_

The addict reached with a miserably trembling hand into the front pocket of his ripped jeans and pulled out Sally´s key chain which he had nicked off her during his Oscar-worthy performance in front the holding cell´s door. He stretched out his right arm, dangling the keys in front of her face but in a distance that forced her to take a step forwards if she wanted to be able to grab it. He possessed the audacity to make it jingle by a twitch of his wrist, then cocked his head mischievously and broadly smirked at her.

_What am I? A sodding donkey that has to be coaxed with a dangling carrot?_

She glowered murderously at him. His smirk only widened.

“Bring me back to my cell. If I should stumble, steady me, this time it´s all for real. I have to lie down as I´m about to crash soon.“ The junkie´s voice was a deep rumble and surprisingly sensual. Also posh as hell.

Sally wondered how the rotten freak managed such a commanding and condescending tone while his speaking pattern had become drunkenly slurred again. Grinding her teeth, she hissed sharply as she snatched the keys out of his trembling hand, halfway expecting that he would draw back his fingers in the last moment to spoil her effort and make her look stupid again. But he didn´t.

She perfectly knew that he was deliberately riling her up and hated him for that. She loathed him even more because he succeeded so easily. Determined to not help him in any way but rather let him fall flat onto his damned face and gloat over it, she abruptly turned and walked away without looking if the cursed junkie followed her.

Sherlock woke up on the uncomfortable cot in his cell to a gentle prodding of his shoulder. He flinched away, coiled himself into a ball, pressing his back against the wall and covering his head reflexively with his arms. He was expecting to be hit.

Mycroft´s heart missed a beat before he said smoothly, “Sherlock, it´s me. No one will harm you anymore.“

Hearing his accursed brother´s voice, Sherlock reluctantly lowered his arms, opened his eyes only a slit wide before blinking heavily in the harsh neon light of the cell. He wiped the cold sweat off his face with his stained sleeve, leaving dirty brownish streaks on his prominent cheekbones.

Sherlock groaned, tried to focus his gaze on Mycroft, but failed and his sight stayed blurred. His voice sounded foreign in his own ears, the vocal chords raspy and hoarse and lightyears away from his usual sensually rumbling baritone.

He croaked. “Leave me alone, I´m coming down rather hard from a double cocaine injection.“

Whatever Mycroft had originally planned to reply in the first case, sarcastic remarks, condescending quips or acerbic jibes, it just dissipated out of his mind as he felt hit in the guts by the sight of the state his baby brother was in.

The look in his brother´s deeply sunken-in eyes was haunted and utterly vulnerable as Mycroft had never seen before and it took Sherlock seconds (whole seconds!) before he was able to conceal it with his usual cold and disdainful expression that he liked to wear when he had to deal with his older brother.

The condition Sherlock was in was far worse than Mycroft had imagined it would be this time in his brother´s continued life of ongoing drug abuse, the addiction having proceeded so far that it consumed his body alive. Mycroft was shocked beyond all measure by the frailty, the weakness and the overall neglect Sherlock´s body screamed at him.

_Oh my God. He´s abysmally malnourished. I sincerely hope his brain is still unimpaired and his organs undamaged by this amount of deliberate self-destruction._

Mycroft had to repress himself from the urge to stroke his hand through his baby brother´s curly hair even matted and greasy as it was right now like he had done so often when he had consoled Sherlock as a child.

So instead of scoffing Mycroft heard himself only whispering softly, “Oh Sherlock! What have you done to yourself?“

Sherlock hissed back acrimoniously, “Avoided your overbearance successfully for months and living my life happily without your meddling!“

“And where has it got you? Just look at you. You´re dying! Simply wasting away!“

Mycroft couldn´t suppress a faint quiver that stole into his voice even as he tried to stay composed but instead became more and more upset.

“Sorry for letting you wait. I promise it won´t take long now and you´re finally rid of your abominable sibling“, Sherlock spat.

D.I. Lestrade who was standing and watching the scene disbelievingly in the background inhaled sharply and turned his face away in sudden sadness. The elder Holmes whom he had got to know just about one hour ago had barged like the fucking cavalry into his office, threatening him with an umbrella. Of all the ridiculous things Greg had been threatened with in his long years as a police officer, that had definitely been the best one.

The elder Holmes then demanded with an air of complete entitlement to be handed his brother immediately, as if Sherlock was a piece of property which had to be returned to his rightful owner. After a death-stare match, which Lestrade lost eventually, they had talked a bit about the younger sibling and Greg now understood what Mycroft Holmes had meant by claiming “having a difficult relationship“. The man was a true master in British understatement.

In the cell Mycroft had lost part of his composure and exclaimed, “I don´t want to see my little brother dead! I never have!“

_Good heavens! If they hadn´t arrested him by chance I would never have seen him alive again. My brother. My next encounter would have been with his ruined body on a slab in a morgue._

Sherlock snorted and propped himself up onto his bony elbows so that he could get a better view of his damned brother. “Why not?“

Mycroft, having regained command over his voice, replied in a careful and considerate tone, “Because, Sherlock, I still care for you, as I have always done.“

“Why?“ Petulance and resentment was written all over Sherlock´s face.

“Because I want to see you alive and healthy.“

„WHY, Mycroft!“ Sherlock´s was face contorted with anger as he bellowed the question.

Mycroft brushed off an imaginary dust particle from the lapel of his immaculate pearl-grey three-piece suit and answered nonchalantly.

“Because I still have not given up on you unlike yourself. And that´s why you hate me so much. You loathe yourself in such a way that in return you loathe anyone who even remotely shows any concern for your assumed detestable self.“

“Jesus!“ Greg, still hovering in the background on the corridor, felt the strong urge to cuff both brothers´ ears.

Sherlock sniffed and rubbed roughly over his eyes with his knuckles as tears threatened to emerge. His voice dripped with self-deprecation. “I am detestable.“

“Right now you definitely are. But you can get better.“ Mycroft looked softly at his younger brother, smiled and sat down at the edge of Sherlock´s cot.

Sherlock flinched back, mumbling defeated. “There´s no reason for me to.“ He averted his eyes.

Mycroft´s smile turned incredibly smug, an expression that was eerily similar to Sherlock´s.

“Oh, but there will be! I spoke to Detective Inspector Lestrade here before we joined you. The D.I. is a very considerate policeman, inventive and a lateral thinker. He would like to propose a suggestion.“

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “So?“ Curiosity always killed the cat.

Mycroft looked straight into his brother´s eyes that had turned to a grey-green in the harsh neon light of the cell.

“Sherlock, even if you won´t believe it, I am terribly grateful that you have been found. I came here as soon as I received the forwarded CCTV footage of Scotland Yard´s main entrance. I have looked out for you all these months and I have to admit I was impressed that you managed to avoid all of London´s surveillance cameras. I also admit that I was horribly afraid you had already miserably died in a gutter and I´d never see you again“

Sherlock was completely flabbergasted by Mycroft´s sincere honesty and the utterly unusual expression of _sentiments_ by his brother which Mycroft normally abhorred. Sherlock found it hard to believe that he had heard correctly and the amount of affection for him in his brother´s voice disconcerted him profoundly.

Not knowing how to react as he felt insecure and vulnerable like he hadn´t in a very long time and suddenly lacking any snarky remarks, Sherlock stayed silent. He blinked several times and looked away, shame suddenly rising in a hot tidal wave.

The elongated silence became uncomfortable.

For the first time since the awkward and painful reunion of the unlike brothers, Lestrade spoke. “Let me ask you a question.“

“If you insist… “, Sherlock was exhausted and just wanted to get this over and be done with his brother.

Greg looked inquiringly at Sherlock and tried to read anything that was going on in this formidable brain behind the clouded gaze of the stunningly pale eyes.

“Why are you wasting your massive mental abilities and trash yourself on drugs being fully aware that you are about to die soon if you continue that way?“

Sherlock stared blankly at the DI. “You sound unnervingly like my brother.“

“Well, your brother is a remarkable man.“

“Yeah, he´s always full of remarks.“

Greg grinned but insisted, “So is there a reason for that self-destruction or are you simply stupid?“

Sherlock´s stare went from blank to mutinous in an instant. “As we have already established I am the exact opposite of stupid.“

Greg glared back darkly. “Delayed suicide through drugs and utter lack of self-preservation is definitely stupid.“

Sherlock shouted, “There´s just no use in carrying on with an agonizingly pointless life! Nothing holds my interest long enough and without continuous stimulation my cursed brilliant brain is likely to explode out of sheer boredom. So it is drugs to make it all remotely bearable!“

Sherlock was so furious and frustrated that while shouting at Greg he had stood up and was now pacing jittery around in his cell and tugged manically at his curls.

The DI reached out and restrained Sherlock very carefully at his elbow.

“Listen to me. I´ve never met someone as intelligent as you before. Even in this pitiable drugged state your mind worked extraordinarily well while you deduced everything about the murder. I would like to see you shine in your whole brilliance. So, if you can get clean and _stay_ clean I would like you to help us on cases, so your astonishing abilities would be put to a useful purpose. Well, what do you think? Is that a reason to carry on with your life and get better? A task to keep you occupied enough without chemical stimulation?“

Sherlock froze. His brain did a somersault as he considered the tempting proposal. He slumped back onto his cot. After a long time of silent assessment, Sherlock faced Lestrade with a solemn and thoughtful look.

“I must admit that I´m intrigued so I might as well give it a try.“

Both Mycroft and Greg exhaled relieved.

“But I will not go into this terrible rehab clinic again. I´ll do the detox on my own.“

Greg started to snort, “The hell you will… “ but was interrupted by Mycroft who held up a silencing hand.

“No, not on your own, brother mine. You´ll come to my place where you can be monitored properly. I could help you there best if you would politely deign to accept my offer.“

A small roguish grin formed on Sherlock´s weary face. “So I have no choice then since you force me to?“

“Not if you want to live.“

Mycroft offered his hand to help Sherlock up but he refused it with a scornful glare.

“I can stand up myself. We better hurry to your house now as the cramps and nausea of withdrawal will start very soon.“

Sherlock´s third detox was a very tough and difficult one. But this time he had a real reason to pull it through, a goal he was eager to achieve. Sherlock committed himself fully to it so that he managed detoxing with surprisingly little whinging or childish petulance. He would become a _Consulting Detective_. The only one in the world. Sherlock knew with absolute certainty that he would _love_ every minute of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock´s dialogue concerning the places where they sit and the commanding of Greg to pay attention is borrowed from the movie “The Imitation Game“.  
> I wrote this chapter imagining the powerplay between Sherlock and Greg concerning the seating situation before I saw the movie and was stunned because the “where I sit“-thing was fitting like a glove. So, I put it on.
> 
> Also, I could not withstand to use both epic “Star Trek Into Darkness“ quotes, “I am better“ etc. as well as “Shall we begin“.  
> The “full of remarks“ remark is leant from “Patrick Melrose“


	16. EXPERIMENT

´Cause if you stay, I would even wait all night

Or until my heart explodes

How long until we find our way

In the dark and out of harm…

You can run away with me

Anytime you want

Summertime, My Chemical Romance

John had stridden out of the sodding warehouse feeling ultimately satisfied with himself for having punched the insufferable suit-man wanker into his soft belly. The look on the haughty face had been priceless and even if there was a very high chance of suffering some sort of payback for his action it had been worth it. Until now, John was standing at the invitingly held open door of a sleek black limousine by just another goon, there had been no repercussions. Which surprised John and even disappointed him a little bit.

_What a pretentious arsehole. Thinks he can buy anyone and anything by threatening and bribing people. I wonder who the fuck he is. Cares about Sherlock, my arse! If his caring means abducting him than… no, thank you very much. As if I would spy on him for money! When I hope to be his friend. And where is the git anyway? What can I do if they don´t set him free? I don´t even know if they will set me free…_

The military guard type who was lingering beside the car nodded to John to get into the backseat. He asked the man with the earpiece where he would be brought to but only got a curt answer that he should wait in the car. Reluctantly he got in, not having a choice not to. His leg had been fine all the time from the start of the abduction at his bedsit where his cane waited for him but right now it started acting up again. Badly.

_Damn my leg! Guess my adrenaline level is sinking. Who would have thought I´d become a danger-junkie? Sherlock realized that immediately as did suit-man, they both are very keen observers and… Oh! Their disdainful eye roll is pretty much the same… are they possibly related?_

_I really hope Sherlock´s O.K._

John had to wait another fifteen minutes in the admittedly cosy backseat before he heard the distinctive clicking of high heels on the broken tarmac. He saw the beautiful brown-haired woman with a completely pissed off but at least outwardly unharmed Sherlock in tow. He looked ruffled and his angular cheekbones were flushed with anger.

_He looks beautiful like that. Like an avenging angel who is about to pluck the unworthy from the earth. Might need a flaming sword though…_

John snickered at the thought of a deliciously blushed Sherlock with blazing eyes clad in a sheet-like toga and brandishing a burning weapon against the savages. He would look gorgeous with feathery wings on his back.

Sherlock scrambled utterly un-angelic into the backseat besides John and spat venomously, “Oh good, you find this whole abduction business funny? Did you enjoy yourself then?“

“Calm down, will you. Are you O.K.?“

Sherlock snorted derisively. “Did you take the money he offered?“

John was surprised. “You knew he would? Is this a habit of him, abducting people and trying to make them spy on you?“

“Indeed, it is. So, did you accept?“

His voice trembled just a little though, if out of anger, humiliation or betrayal John was not sure. He could not see Sherlock´s face because he kept looking pointedly away from John.

“No, of course not! I don´t spy on my friends!“ John felt indignant by the mere thought of being suspected to stoop so low. 

Sherlock clearly relaxed and turned his head slowly to finally look John into the eyes to see if there was any falsehood hidden. There wasn´t. The beautiful blue grey eyes widened in obvious surprise.

“You consider yourself my friend?“ He whispered heartbreakingly incredulous.

“Yeah, looks that way. I followed your abductors in a cab, so well…“

“You did what?“ Sherlock´s mouth fell slightly open in genuine surprise. “Why would you do that?“

He blinked several times in sudden succession because his mind was momentarily unable to process the possibility of someone coming after him because they _cared_.

Sherlock´s thoughts ran rampage in his mind palace. He meant something to John? So that the doctor would stride recklessly onto an unknown battleground to save him? Of course, the man was an adrenaline junkie, but still…

“Because I wanted to make sure you´d be safe, unharmed and I thought… for fuck´s sake! Why is it so difficult for you to accept that I like you and want to help? Friends protect people, don´t you know that?“ John stated calmly and a little bit abashed for admitting to _like_ Sherlock.

Not that it meant liking him in a sexual way. It didn´t mean in a sexual way. Did it not?

_Has he really never experienced that someone just cares for him without second-guessing? What kind of lonely and sad life does he live if he thinks no one would possibly be concerned if something bad happened to him?_

“Oh. Um, thank you, then? I´m not used to… this. Friends, I mean.“

Sherlock fiddled nervously with a loose thread of his torn jeans and looked almost shy from under his luxuriant eyelashes towards John.

“I thought he abducted you as well and you had no free choice about that at all.“

“Um, I sort of jumped to the occasion. So what was this all about? Who is this man with the ridiculous umbrella?“

A deep sigh was uttered by Sherlock and he pinched his nose in sheer annoyance.

“One of the most dangerous men in England. He practically runs the British government, has infinite knowledge, manpower and money at hand and you definitely would not be well off if you make him your enemy. He likes to “vanish“ people.“

John swallowed hard. This did not go down very well. Maybe he should have been more polite and he definitely should not have punched the posh prat. John felt sweat building at his nape. Would the man take revenge for his insolent behaviour?

Sherlock sneered. “He also happens to be my ever-meddling elder brother.“

Well that came as another shock. John felt a burst of electricity running down his spine and something cold settled in his heart.

“Oh God. I should not have punched him.“ John exhaled.

Sherlock spluttered, so astonished that he even repeated a question of his own. Something he never did and loathed if other people would do. Because they were all morons, obviously.

“You did what?“ A big grin began to bloom on his face making it look as if the sun had burst out through heavy rain clouds.

John tried to stifle an embarrassed grin. “Er, he made me so angry that I punched him in the belly. Fiercely. He fell speechless immediately.“

The grin widened and reached Sherlock´s eyes which lit up with incandescent fire. It formed tiny laughter lines around the corners of his eyes and a deep rumbling laughter emerged out of the depth of Sherlock´s abdomen.

“You injured his most valued body part.“ Now Sherlock died of laughter.

“Well, he is a git. He had it coming.“ John finally joined the mirthful guffaw.

The brown haired woman chose this moment to tell the waiting driver to drop the passengers off at 221b Baker Street before uttering a definitely not honest “It was a pleasure to have met you, Dr. Watson“, and adding in an afterthought, “You too, Sherlock.“

“Piss off, Anthea, save your sycophancy for Mycroft.“

She just grinned.

The car pulled away from the warehouse and drove sleekly through the thick London traffic. Sherlock was quiet and looked out of the window, contemplating. John did the same. They were silent for several minutes and the atmosphere in the car relaxed more and more as the inner tension of both men lessened.

Finally John asked, “So, what is at Baker Street then?“

Sherlock suddenly looked chagrined as he turned and watched John.

“Oh yes. Baker Street. Um, well, that´s where I live. Now. My flat. I just moved in. Anthea assumed you would want to go there with me. I forgot to ask you if you want to be dropped off somewhere else. Of course, you don´t have to go there, if you don´t want to, I mean, it´s not mandatory. So. You don´t need to…“

_Sherlock, you are blabbering! You idiot! What is John supposed to think of me? Am I afraid to have him in the flat? Why do I care about what he thinks of me? Hmm, Oh! Because he wants to be my friend, obviously. I´ve never had one. Well, Sailor was my friend and he´s dead. Oh, and Victor. But Victor is also dead. Well, sort of. And… incomplete._

_It feels nice to have a real living human friend. I´d like to have John in the flat. But what if he doesn´t like it? It´s a mess. I´m a mess. I´m going to drive him away. Even if this time it will not be on purpose. I just don´t know what to do! It´s appalling. Abhorrent. Terrifying… Fuck!_

John sensed that something was suddenly off with Sherlock. He was even more nervous than before and kept poking at the loose threads of his ripped jeans widening the hole at his right knee by plucking them out.

“Are you afraid that I don´t want to see your flat? I can assure you, I´d love to. Since you told me I´ve wondered what it would look like. I´m really curious, you know?“

John´s voice was soothingly gentle and he even patted his hand shortly on Sherlock´s knee in a careful gesture to calm him down. In fact, it did the exact opposite to Sherlock´s brain because it spectacularly short-circuited at the unexpectetd, unfamiliar but, oh so lovely, touch. His skin prickled. His skin vibrated. _He_ vibrated. And, fuck all, _his groin_ vibrated as well.

_Great. That´s not helpful at all. Having to meet his high expectations. That can only end in failure._

_And since when am I so fucking transparent? Oh God, I really hope that no one else can read me like John does. That would be apocalyptic! But then he´s special, just special. John. Soldier, doctor. Blue eyes, warm kind hands. I should warn him. About me._

“It´s nothing special. Sort of eclectic furniture. Untidy. Cluttered. Victorian. Strange kitchen. Nothing you would like anyway.“ Sherlock knew he was deflecting.

“Oh, no. I´m sure it will match your personality.“

_Yes, in fact it does and that´s exactly the problem!_

“It´s just that… friends should know the worst of each other, don´t they?“ Sherlock sighed.

“OK. And you think your flat is the worst? Well, now I know. I promise you not to run. I won´t be frightened by an, er, old… fridge.“ John said nonchalantly.

He could not fathom out why this utterly brilliant man was so timid suddenly and tried to make light of the conversation with an admittedly flat joke.

Sherlock just gnashed his teeth.

_Oh, John, you have NO idea! It´s what´s in the frigde… and under the washbasin and on the heating and where did I leave the burnt pig´s feet? Oh, and the mummified seal…_

While Sherlock had to use all of his resolve not to chew his fingernails off, John in contrast felt thrilled, he was going to see where the intriguing man lived. He had thought about it several times since he had met Sherlock and now he was even more curious because the insane man seemed to be utterly disturbed by the assumption that John would feel somehow put off by his flat.

Silence descended onto the men in the backseat again.

All the rest of the way to Sherlock´s mysterious flat in Baker Street John was sort of feeling like being so much on the edge that a false breath would make him topple over. He had no idea why it was like it was but it was… strange. It was not the fact that he had been abducted, it was not the way he had to chase after his new found friend to ensure his safety (because he definitely regarded Sherlock as his friend now, the incident at the warehouse had made these sentiments all so much clearer to John) and it was not the encounter with the obnoxious Mycroft Holmes.

John was anxious to see what Sherlock´s flat looked like, he had pondered about this now and then after he was finally convinced that “Shezza“ was really just an assumed persona and that the man himself was actually not homeless or an addict, at least not any more. Maybe he was afraid to find the flat average, boring or dreary, he imagined it should be as scintillating and stunning and dangerous as the quirky man himself. After mulling over his mixed feelings John determined that he was afraid of being disappointed, as if dull furniture would somehow diminish Sherlock´s fascinating personality.

John shot the detective several sideway glances as they rode silently together on the backseat of the black car but Sherlock seemed lost in his thoughts, he showed no signs that he was mentally present, his beautiful face was set in a scowl, his brow furrowed and his mouth pressed into a thin line.

The car arrived at Baker Street, they got out and Sherlock awkwardly unlocked the front door after adjusting the iron wrought door knocker, leaving it askew, then led the way up seventeen steps to the first floor. He opened another door on the landing, stiffly gestured John to step in while holding it open for the doctor. Sherlock hunched his shoulders and anticipated the worst just to not be overwhelmed by John´s expected negative reaction.

Upon entering John felt like a child with a long awaited Christmas present to unpack. He loved Christmas.

Upon seeing John entering Sherlock felt like a child with a Christmas present to give away hoping that it would match the expectations. Which they somehow never did. He hated Christmas.

John stood three steps into the main room and tried to take in everything. He blinked. He licked his lips. He exhaled. It was… awesome.

_Cluttered, indeed. Strange, definitely. Eclectic, oh yes. Untidy, Jesus! Absolutely. A mess. And it is also stunning, comfy, ingenious and… brilliant. Just like its brilliant inhabitant. Glorious, great, gorgeous. Just like Sherlock himself. Breathtaking._

There was a human skull on the mantelpiece, a taxidermied bat in a showcase with butterflies, a bloodied antique whaler´s harpoon in the corner, a riding crop leant against a music stand, papers everywhere, trinkets everywhere, half-emptied mugs of tea everywhere (some had a peculiar greenish furry layer swimming on top), weird old-fashioned wallpapers. John felt he could use a lifetime to look at every strange object in the room and never get tired of it. There were two nicely mismatched armchairs at a fireplace and a battered sofa with a quilt hanging haphazardly halfway down the back, there was… more than he could take in.

“It´s awesome. I could never have imagined… that. Jesus, I envy you. When I think of my barren bedsit. It´s so utterly… you.“ John had trouble to express what he felt so he turned around and just beamed at Sherlock.

Sherlock unfolded under John´s adoring gaze like a flower bud exposed to the sun. His shoulders straightened, his mouth smirked and his eyes gleamed.

_Thank God, he likes it. Loves it even. Should I tell him about the spare bedroom? He should move in there. Or is this inadequate? Too early, I suppose. And also I stored the mummified seal under the bed. Don´t want to scare him away already. That can never be allowed to happen!_

Sherlock watched John as he ambled towards the fireplace looking curiously at him and then hesitatingly at Victor.

“Where did you get this human skull? It´s real.“ He gave Sherlock another questioning look and made a gesture to be allowed to pick it up.

Sherlock nodded slightly. He thought about what he should tell John but since the doctor had not reacted very benign to his cryptic answers before he decided to try and tell him the full truth. Or at least most of the full truth.

“I found Victor at a graveyard.“ Sherlock tried to keep his face blank.

John nevertheless seemed to choke on his casual explanation. “You desecrated a grave to nick a skull and then named it Victor? You´re unbelievably insane!“

_As if I would willingly dig up a grave. Well I have done it. Once. Digging up a grave is messy business. It was for or a case, of course. You get the sticky soil everywhere and the smell of the rotten body parts is difficult to get off one´s clothes even when laundered with… better not reveal that to John._

Sherlock snorted. “No, don´t be asinine, John. Some drunken hooligans dug it up and left him lying open on the soil. I simply took him with me.“

“You can´t just nick random bones from graves, you know?“

John looked at him as if he had just told a room full of small children that Santa Clause does not exist. That was a bit not good.

“Why not? The graveyard has been abandoned for years, no one would have missed Victor. He was lying there all alone. He was lonely. I was lonely, too. So.“ Sherlock added in small voice and suddenly realized that this explanation really sounded very creepy and indeed utterly mad. Which was also a bit not good.

John asked quietly, “You were lonely?“

“Yes, that´s what I just said. Do catch up!“ Sherlock retorted snidely to hide his growing embarrassment.

“You looked for company at a graveyard?“ John gazed at Sherlock as if he was the eighth world wonder.

The detective hastened to explain. “Victor became my fr… I needed to talk to someone. Something...“ He trailed off and his cheeks grew frighteningly red, he was abashed and tried to hide it by quickly looking away and walking into the kitchen.

“You´re blushing“! John stated without mercy.

_God. He looks gorgeous like that._

“No! It´s just… hot in here“, came the muffled response while Sherlock clattered around the kitchen with no obvious purpose.

_This must be you since you´re the hottest thing in here._

John suddenly felt like having to show mercy to the squirming man. He did not want to wind up him any further and make him even more uncomfortable so he rather bluntly changed the topic.

“Oh, yeah. It´s stifling. Problem with the old heating?“

Sherlock visibly relaxed as he got onto verbally safe ground and pretended to be puzzled as he went out of the kitchen again, holding a glass of water.

“Well, I left the heating on max. Thought you might like it, having been in Afghanistan and so on.“ He watched John with big inculpable puppy eyes as he parted his plush lips and took a sip of water.

The sight of that caused another hot wave rolling through John´s body.

“Don´t tell me you did it so I would feel comfortable. You had no idea that I would visit your flat today.“ John grinned. “I´m not stupid.“

“Hmph. That remains to be established yet.“

“Prat! Do you also smell this peculiar aroma? Sickly sweet and putrescent? Did you leave just another rotten-fish-rubbed sweatshirt lying around?“ John sniffed in disgust and tried to locate the source of the dreadful smell. Sherlock did not react.

“Sherlock?“

“Hmm?“

“You also smell that rotten stench?“

“Ah, yes? Problem?“ The big blue grey puppy eyes made a grandiose reappearance.

“Where does it come from? Is this the rotten soul of Shezza pouring out of you?“ John teased.

The affronted look on Sherlock´s face was priceless (affronted male Holmes´ really looked quite priceless) and John giggled happily while the detective´s mortification grew. He huffed and waltzed off into what looked like his bedroom.

Sherlock started rummaging around in a large wardrobe and answered distractedly, “Oh, _that_ smell. It´s an experiment, obviously."

John took another searching look around the living room to locate the source. Finally, he found a large Petri dish on the radiator.

“Ha! Obviously? Is this a human kidney baking on the radiator?“

“Of course. It´s an experiment. As I´ve just told you“, came the irritated muffled answer out of the bedroom.

_This is a typical Sherlockian answer which does not explain anything at all. Where did he even get the organ from? I sincerely hope he´s not stealing corpses from graveyards like they did in the olden times…_

“Where did you get it from?“

“Well, I´m… aquainted with a rather… compliant pathologist at Bart´s Hospital who supplies me.“

John frowned. “O.K.? Experiment on _what_ precisely?“

“Does it bother you? You´re a doctor after all. You should have seen kidneys before.“

Sherlock marched out of the bedroom, aloof and only being wrapped in a bedsheet in what looked like roman toga style. That sight came very near to John´s imagination of an avenging angel before. He did not see a sword in the flat but the harpoon in the corner could make a nice spear.

John gaped at him incredulously. If it was because of the kidney or because of him wearing a sheet John was not quite sure. Probably both.

“When I saw them they were normally still inside the human abdomen filtering our blood.“ John managed to say after swallowing hard at the sight of the expanse of ethereally pale skin, beautifully delicate collarbones and lithe long limbs.

_And here is my imagined angel. Only the wings are missing. Would his gorgeous curls feel silky? I would like to suck a love bite at his birdlike bones…_

“Filtering is boring.“ The angel stated blasé and John was torn out of his reverie.

_A rather arrogant annoying angel anyway…_

“Oops!“ John had poked at the swollen tissue with a teaspoon that had lain abandoned on the dusty floor in front of the radiator.

“There is a slimy liquid oozing out.“

Sherlock hesitated at the bathroom door. “I´m experimenting on decomposition.“

“Great. That puts my mind at rest. There´s also some bluish mould covering the fluid which oozed into the Petri dish.“ John eyed it slightly alarmed. “Is it biohazardous?“

“Nah… That´s only a minor and unimportant side effect.“ Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and had to catch his sheet because it threatened to slide down over his arse.

_Which is a pity really because now I´ll be thinking of what his backside would have looked like all the time. It would look even better with a love bite of mine to adorn it._

John tried to get his thoughts back from the taut arse to the flaccid kidney which proved unsurprisingly a difficult task.

“Also, there´s some greenish mould on the kidney itself.“ He managed to say.

Sherlock sighed. “Could you just stop stating the obvious? Decomposition, remember? What do you expect to grow there? Fragrant roses?“

“Do you also know that there are inch long yellow maggots crawling over it?“

That finally got Sherlock´s attention and he visually perked up. “Oh! Really? Excellent!“

Sherlock shuffled closer as quickly as his sheet permitted, meaning he could only waddle like a fattened goose and looked at John with an excited childlike expression on his face. Like getting a long awaited Christmas present. John found the sight utterly adorable and grinned.

“I completely forgot that they should have hatched this morning.“ Sherlock said absent-mindedly.

John suddenly felt a warm and bony body pressing against his back while Sherlock loomed over his shoulder to get a better view of the little crawlers. A hot shiver was running down John´s spine (again) and he stiffened as he felt another part of his body stiffen as well.

“The maggots are trying to escape over the rim of the Petri dish.“

“Oh! Stop them John! They all have to be counted. It´s important!“ Sherlock hopped impatiently behind John and commanded, “Don´t stare at me like that, do it! Now!“

John laughed and did not move a finger. Badgering the pompous git was really fun. “Some have already escaped and fallen onto the radiator.“

“Damn! Just pick them up and put them back. Quickly, John. It´s essential. Vital. Urgent. Science needs you!“

John huffed. “The ones that fell onto the radiator have shrivelled to tiny black crumbs because it is fucking red-hot!“

“Then pick up the shrivels and count them as well!“

“Pah! Why don´t you do it yourself. After all it´s your weird experiment. _Your_ pets are getting away and are charring to coal. Not mine.“

John crossed his arms in front of his chest with ostentation and stepped aside.

Sherlock bristled. “Well, I would if I did not have to hold up this stupid sheet.“

“Bad luck, then!“

“Why do you have to be so recalcitrant?“ Sherlock shot him an irritated look.

“Forget it, you won´t be able to coax me into doing your work for you.“

At this moment John of course did not know how completely wrong he was. Sherlock would always be able to get John to do things that the detective himself found too low for him, too tedious, too pedestrian, too boring or too domestic. Which meant the majority of all things concerning normal day-to-day human life.

Sherlock glared at John, clearly annoyed and grumbling under his breath before he called out in exasperation. “For fuck´s sake! You´re no help at all, John.“

John glared back. If this was to become a pissing contest he was well accustomed to this ritual because he had done it countless times with his tomboy sister Harriet.

“John, I have to tell you that you brought this onto yourself.“ Sherlock sulked.

 _John, if you think you can beat me in a pissing contest, you´re sadly mistaken. I practiced all my life with Mycroft being the hardest contestant ever. And if you think I did not realize how you looked at me clad in a sheet you´re mistaken again. I know exactly how to play you. Still I have not figured out yet how to get you_ under _my sheet. I´d really like to see your scar and suck a love bite to it…_

So, Sherlock gave John a withering look, raised his eyebrows and purposefully opened his hands. The sheet which was now without a hold slipped off his left shoulder and glided slowly down his chest, then along his abdomen revealing his groin and caressed his lithe legs to finally pool in an artful still-life around his feet leaving Sherlock absolutely starkers.

He made a move to pick up the first shrivelled maggots and deliberately turned to let John get an unrestrained look on his taut and luxuriously shaped arse.

John felt like having a stroke and gaped open-mouthed. He gasped for air feeling ridiculous and cursed the bloody genius in his mind for having no personal boundaries at all and exploiting his weaknesses ruthlessly and without apparent shame. He resisted the urge to gather the sheet and wrap it around his own midsection to conceal the rising bulge in his trousers.

“Oh my God! Just go, just take the bloody shower. You win, I´ll do it.“ John felt his face reddening. “Evil bastard!“

Sherlock had the gall to look completely innocent and in genuine wonder as he lightly asked the stunned doctor, “Why are you suddenly so shy about a naked man´s body? You´re a physician and you were in the army. That should be nothing new to you.“

“Oh for Heaven´s sake, you are such a manipulative utter prat!“

“You already knew that and yet here you are.“

“And right now I really regret that.“ John sighed deeply. “What are those maggots anyway?“

“Calliphora vomitoria. Blue blowfly. They are among the first species to colonize a human cadaver.“ Sherlock explained and flounced into the bathroom.

“I hate you.“ John mumbled as he went to work collecting the maggots with a nitrile glove Sherlock had shoved at him earlier while he heard the prat splashing happily in the shower.

“I´ll make us a cuppa tea? If you have some?“ John asked as Sherlock emerged out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam wearing a smooth silk blue dressing gown only loosely tied around his slim waist.

_Why does he have to be such a fucking tease?_

“It´s somewhere in the top drawer in the kitchen. Don´t use the tea bags with the red label, though.“ Sherlock ambled back into his bedroom.

John eyed the chemistry set which occupied the whole of the kitchen table suspiciously. The sink was full of dirty plates and mugs and laboratory glassware and John shuddered at the thought what the madman had cooked up in them.

Noises of rummaging could be heard from the kitchen until a sound of enlightenment escaped John´s mouth, “Ah, here, got ´em. Why not use the red ones?“

“What?“

“What is wrong with the red tea bags?“

“Oh, yes. Had to poison them for an experiment. Better not drink those“, the answer sounded oblivious.

John snorted. “You´re serious? Which poison?“

Sherlock just shrugged in a bored way. “Nothing exciting. Just strychnine.“

“Jesus! You utter… madman! You can´t keep poisoned tea bags in the kitchen!“ John exclaimed and rushed out of the kitchen to give Sherlock a stern look who blinked completely innocent at him before replying genuinely baffled.

“Why not? They´re kept separated from the good ones so these are safe from getting contaminated.“

John shouted and threw his hands up in the air. “It´s _not_ safe! Someone could accidentally die! Sherlock, this is insane.“

Sherlock pouted and answered petulantly, “No, it´s not! No one besides me makes tea in my kitchen!“

_Thinking of it most of the time I do not even do it myself and rely on Mrs. Hudson to provide it._

Sherlock also decided not to mention that Billy Wiggins had made tea in his kitchen just a few days ago but that would be detrimental to the discussion with John. He would just get more upset. If that´s even possible considering how he was now glaring at him and bristling like an angry hedgehog with all those prickly spikes raised to maximum height.

“I´m throwing them away right now!“ John stated in his no-nonsense voice.

“Fine. Do it if you feel better then.“

_Considering his agitation, the comparison to a hedgehog was faulty. A porcupine fits him much better._

“Hmph. Are there any other hazardous materials in your sorry excuse for a kitchen?“ John enquired as he started opening drawers and looking into them.

Sherlock entered the kitchen with a wary expression and now clad in a snugly fitting expensive purple dress shirt and pristine black suit trousers. John nearly crushed his fingers while closing a drawer because the sight of _this_ Sherlock was utterly marvellous. His curls bounced slightly as the lithe man moved with cat-like grace closer to John who stared and licked his lips.

_He looks like a damn male supermodel. Devastatingly gorgeous. And the prick is very well aware!_

“You didn´t have to dress up to the nines“, John said in a hopefully unimpressed voice and added for the sake of distraction, “did you cook up meth in that contraption on the table?“

“I did not! It´s what I usually wear. Did you expect me running around in holey jeans and stained hoodies all the time?“ Sherlock snorted derisively and leant casually against the fridge while complaining.

“And just that you know for cooking up meth I´d need a completely different setup of the distillation apparatus. So stop prying at my things, they´re none of your business anyway.“

John would not give up so easily. “You didn´t answer my question.“

Sherlock snorted and switched to puppy eyes again. “There is nothing else in the drawers.“

“You´re not fooling me with this look. Why are you blocking the door of the fridge with your back?“

_Fuck! The man is more attentive than I gave him credit for. Which is problematic. But also good because he is not utterly oblivious to… things. Oh God, has he already noticed my attraction to him as well? That would be… terrible. But maybe the attraction is mutual? He gaped at my backside though…_

“John, you´re being ridiculous. I have to stand somewhere“, Sherlock replied rather flippant.

“Sherlock, your behaviour is simply transpicuous, what´s in the fridge?“ John came closer and tried to grab the handle. Sherlock shifted his body in the way of John´s hand.

“Just food… stuff.“

“So let me have a quick look then.“

Sherlock glared at John in hope to frighten him off. “It´s my fridge, you´re not to open it.“

“Get out of the way, Sherlock.“ John was obviously completely unafraid.

“No!“

“Now!“

“Make me!“

“For fuck´s sake!“

In a blindingly fast movement John snatched Sherlock´s arm, twisted it around so that he had the detective in a firm police hold while putting pressure on his elbow and shoulder joints. Sherlock wheezed as John shoved him unceremoniously and not too gentle out of the way.

Sherlock rubbed his bruised elbow, seethed and accused John, “You have a real temper problem. Always getting violent when you´re angry!“ He looked offended at John.

“And you have a real developmental problem since you´re always acting like a four year old child.“ John replied caustically.

Just to spite him Sherlock stuck out his tongue which made his nose scrunch up in tiny wrinkles. He folded his arms in front of his chest and pouted.

John thought that Sherlock looked absolutely endearing like that and finally opened the fridge. And gasped. And gasped again. And then he started to laugh, loud and deep gurgling ripples of laughter, until he had to catch his breath and wipe away the tears in his eyes.

Sherlock watched John, utterly uncomprehending what the other man found so funny about his eye experiment.

“Oh my God! It´ll never get boring with you. I expected another mouldy maggoty kidney but, no shit Sherlock, what the hell are you doing with a dozen eyeballs full of needles in the fridge? Trying to establish a new sort of pin cushion? Performing voodoo rituals?“

Sherlock looked insulted again, “Don´t be stupid! I´m merely investigating how the different eye colours correlate with shrinking processes while in cold humid conditions. The needles are just markers to measure the loss of size.“

“You render me speechless“, said John still wiping at his wet eyes.

“Sadly, this is obviously not the case.“

“Prat!“

Both men did not know it, but while John finally managed to pour the hot water onto the tea bags they each thought about how easy it was for them to banter and bicker with each other. How they seemingly fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. How comforting and exhilarating the presence of the other was. None believed in the concept of soulmates and yet, they were perfect for and with each other. They were the perfect solution to each other´s addictions.

Sherlock wondered admiringly how John would not take real offence in his peculiar personality quirks and weird behaviour and still like him, adoring him even more the more eccentric he became.

_Angry John in soldier mode is also utterly sexy. Fuck! Since when have I ever thought of sexy men last time? I´d so like to see him in his fatigues, dog tags jangling around his neck, handling his assault rifle, his calloused hands on my arse while he orders me to drop down and suck…_

Something hot flowed down through Sherlock´s body and pooled in an area that he had forgotten about a long time ago. His mouth watered and he felt a high washing over him, not unlike the rush of cocaine injected into his scarred veins.

John wondered admiringly how Sherlock could possibly become even weirder and more potentially dangerous to be around by the hour and at the same time be so utterly fucking adorable while behaving like a petulant child.

_I want to see that lovely moue again. I want to manhandle him again, get close to him and smell him and tousle his curly hair, it´s so silky and curly now that it´s washed. I want to rub my face against his godly cheekbones and taste his mouth, I want to make him pant and grab his arse cheeks and have him against this fridge full of eyeballs…_

Something hot flowed down through John´s body and pooled in an area that he had forgotten about since his injury. His mouth watered and he felt a high washing over him, not unlike the rush of adrenaline in a dangerous situation.

Sherlock swallowed.

John swallowed.

John poured the tea into two mismatched cups that seemed to be mostly clean. “Do you have sugar and milk?“

“Sugar is in the sugar bowl with the rose blossoms on it. Milk is in the fridge.“

Sherlock retreated and flopped himself onto the old sofa. It was almost long enough to accommodate his lanky body and he propped a couple of cushions into his back so that he could comfortably lay his head onto the armrest. The soft inky curls fanned around his head like a halo.

He heard John opening the fridge again and listened to a retching sound. Alarmed he inquired immediately. “Is everything O.K. with you John?“

“Ew, that´s gross! What have you put in that milk bottle? It smells absolutely disgusting!“

John peeked around the edge of the sliding door, holding the offensive object as far away from his nose as possible to show it to Sherlock.

John swallowed again as his eyes fell upon the sight of Sherlock´s gorgeously bouncing curls as the detective raised his head slightly to look in John´s direction. The slanting light from the window fell sideways onto the pale blue-grey irises, making them glow otherworldly.

_Jesus, in this light he has an angelic beauty to him, doesn´t need a sheet for that at all…_

“Oh, yes! I forgot. I had to experiment with butyric fermentation in milk. It was for the case of a jealous wife trying to poison her adultery committing husband. You can discard it now if you like.“

_…even if he acts like a complete dick!_

John sighed and scratched his head. “Remind me to never piss you off, will you?“

A truly terrifying mad and toothy grin formed on the angelic face now looking rather demonic.

“I poured the rest of the good milk into the plastic container with the yellow lid and the label of that intestinal cleansing substance on it. I assure you it´s completely suitable for consumption. As long as it has not gone off in the meantime.“

A pensive expression crossed Sherlock´s face. John could actually hear the thoughts running in this extraordinary brain “ _How long does it take for milk to get bad? I have to experiment on that. Could be vital data_.”

John shook his head, muttering to himself. “Absolutely fucking mental he is.“

The next few hours spent together in the flat flew by in lightning speed for both men. They just clicked together like two pieces of a puzzle.

John talked about his time in the army as a soldier and a doctor but not about getting shot.

Sherlock was fascinated.

Sherlock disclosed a bit of his current case of the missing rent-boys and summarized some of his most difficult cases but not why he shot up cocaine when he was younger.

John was fascinated.

They ordered Chinese take-away for lunch and ate it with appetite and drank the non-noxious tea from Sherlock´s kitchen.

John talked about infectious skin diseases in humid climates and Sherlock informed John of the various stages of decomposition of a human body. John explained how to reattach a severely bleeding foot to the leg in an emergency surgery. Sherlock revealed which untraceable poison he would use to murder Mycroft with the most painful death imaginable.

They were fascinated.

Later, John managed to coax Sherlock into playing the violin for him. He was mesmerized and overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of the man´s soul which was sort of laid open while playing his instrument in a way of communication John had never experienced before. It was a miracle. A revelation. John felt a longing for staying in Sherlock´s company that was so corporeal that the mere thought of having to leave the man later hurt like hell.

Sherlock normally hated playing on command for others but this was _John_. He made a small show of letting himself being coaxed into playing some of his favourite pieces because Sherlock felt an irresistible urge to _show off_. Of course, Sherlock always liked to show off. But this was different. Not only showing off his intellectual prowess, John already got to see quite a lot of _that_ , but to show his best side, if there were any to be found at all, to this special ex-army doctor.

Sherlock felt the need to prove himself worthy of John´s continuing admiration and wanted very much to be appreciated for his other personality traits as well. Not only providing danger, diversion and suspense. He wanted to be acknowledged and appreciated as his _whole_ himself, not only parts like the freak, the rude one, the deduction wonder, the mad scientist, the detective. And since when playing the violin he was so utterly himself, Sherlock jumped to the occasion to show his _feeling_ side to his newfound and special friend.

When John had to leave because he had an appointment with his therapist this afternoon he felt utterly terrible. He already missed Sherlock even if he just said good bye a minute before. They shook hands and kept holding them a bit longer than appropriate, relishing in the touch of warm soft skin with the distinguished callouses of doctor and violinist.

They thought about how their lips would feel against each other.

Sherlock saw John walk down the seventeen steps to the main entrance and already felt the loss of John´s luminous presence like a total eclipse of the sun.

John sighed deeply as he closed the door behind him and walked down the street, his leg already acting up again.

Sherlock sighed deeply as he watched John limping away through the window.

Both men were comforted by the promise that they would keep in touch via their phones and Sherlock also found the courage to promise John to invite him to his flat when the case was solved. John found the courage to offer Sherlock his help as a doctor for his case if he might need it.

Ten minutes after they had parted John realized that he had developed a severe crush on Sherlock Holmes.

_Fuck! What would Sherlock think of me if he knew? Would he still like to see me? Better keep that under the rug…_

Two minutes after they parted Sherlock realized that he had developed a severe crush on Dr. John Watson.

_Shit! What would John think of me if he knew? Would he still like to see me? Better keep my mouth shut about that…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Calliphora vomitoria exists. I chose them because they produce a lot of really big and fast moving maggots… Sherlock would definitely love them.  
> Also, I couldn´t resist the Good Omens reference with avenging angels in togas and flaming swords.  
> Also, behold the divine “Purple shirt of sex”!


	17. CAPTURE

You disrespect me so clearly, Now you better hear me

This is not the way it goes down

You did it to yourself and it´s over, Now let me show ya

Exactly how the breaking point sounds

I wanna see you choke on your lies, swallow up your greed

Suffer all alone in your misery

Lies Greed Misery, Linkin Park

Sherlock kept hovering a long time motionless at the window, gazing out towards the spot where John had disappeared around a street corner without actually looking at anything. He contemplated the encounter with his doctor.

_Oh, well, of course John is not “my“ doctor but I´d so like him to be mine: a man who is looking so boring, ordinary and so unassuming but is such a compelling, unpredictable, complex person underneath this gruesome wool knit jumper._

_Who wears knitted jumpers anyway these days? Was John from the Aran Isles? The pattern of his jumper with the intricate plaid design, where does it stem from? I really have to do a thorough research concerning the origins of traditional knitting patterns, that would be useful for cases, obviously, too._

Sherlock lost himself in thinking about the differences concerning length and softness of several types of wool fibres.

_John is soft, isn´t he? His jumper is soft, he himself is more like steel, dear God, I´m rambling in my mind palace like a nutter, but, yes, knitting patterns. John likes wool. And knitwear and maybe he even likes… ME… and… I should focus on the sodding case._

_As soon as I wrap it up I can see John again. Supposing that he´d like to see me again, too. Hopefully he does. He said so. Shit, I´ve become a sentimental moron. Why is that so? What is John to me? A crush. A dangerous distraction at least._

_Have to focus on the case._

_Easier said than done._

Sherlock wanted to see the doctor again. After John had left 221b there was no sunlight left in the flat. It had become dark and bleak and lifeless. He realized with a pang of self-loathing that he was pining over an ex-army doctor. He longed for his touch, for his smell, for the feeling of wool jumpers against his skin.

Sherlock struggled to get a grip on himself which proved to be surprisingly difficult. Why was that? The state he was in was unheard of. Mycroft´s voice chided him in his mind palace, looking disdainful, “Sherlock you let sentiment cloud your brain. Caring is not an advantage as you should well know.“

The mind-palace Sailor added in his typical cockney accent “You swore you´d never get your heart broken again like when I died. You swore to never let anyone close enough again to be able to hurt you so much.“

“John is a good man“, Sherlock argued, “he´d never hurt me on purpose.“

But Mycroft again droned, “That´s even worse because he will hurt you unintentionally which will be even more painful. He´ll leave you, soon to be fed up with your acerbic personality, your quirks, your faults, your obnoxiousness. Then you´ll be alone again, worse than ever and probably relapsing on your cocaine addiction.“

Sherlock was at a loss. Solving the mystery of his puzzling sentiments was simply too much.

Solving crimes on contrary was easy. That´s what he was good at. Applying his superior logic. Applying his superior observational skills. Easy-peasy. No need to get emotionally involved. No sentiments. Sentiments were messy. Unpredictable. Dangerous.

Sherlock realized he was afraid like hell to let his feelings towards John get the upper hand. He was very well aware that he was about to fall hard for John Watson. He was not ignorant about sentiments and could very well discern between them. He felt them like anybody else. It was just that he chose not to acknowledge his sentiments and to compartmentalize them.

Over the years he had become very good at that. _Sociopath_ he called himself and most people were very willing to quickly believe that. Sherlock Holmes the unfeeling machine, untouchable, unfazed, always aloof. He´d become very skilful at hiding that he indeed felt very much and was just afraid of the inevitable vulnerability that ensued if you let someone get a close look into your soul or gain a firm place inside your heart.

As the sun began to set Sherlock finally stirred and moved towards his desk with the laptop on it. He had come to the conclusion that as long as this case was going on, he would not be willing to see John again. But when he had solved it he was free to text John and he planned to invite him on a dinner or lunch to Angelo´s.

Whatever would happen then he did not know and did not want to think about right at this moment. The least thing he could do and owed himself was to give it a try. John had wanted to befriend _Shezza_ of all people. John had been fascinated by all the weird and strangely disconcerting facts and stories he had told John this day. John had followed his abductor´s car to save him without thinking a second about it. He had defied Mycroft´s attempt to pay him to spy on Sherlock. John had even _punched_ Mycroft for being an obnoxious asshole.

John had sharply ogled him when he was dressed in his usual attire, meaning suit pants and crisp dress shirt under the suit jacket, hair and face clean and no trace left of _Shezza the Seedy Addict_. John had tried to hide his attraction but of course Sherlock had noticed. It had been quite obvious, actually.

Ergo, John was definitely attracted to him as well. They could definitely at least be good friends with each other and maybe, hopefully, they could become _more_. Anyway, Sherlock promised himself to solve the case as quickly as possible to be free to concentrate solely on Dr. John Watson. Until then he would not think about him anymore. He´d at least try not to.

With his newfound determination Sherlock settled behind his laptop and started to search the internet. As he had deduced, this hooker Gerald Summer had… most probably blackmailed the victim, maybe resolving in a desperate attempt to get rid of… or perform suicide maybe… or whatever.

Maybe the person in question was popular because he could easily be blackmailed to a large sum of money with the so-called “fuck-photos“ which must have happened about six to ten weeks ago, because that was when Gerald had been purchasing a three-months supply of purest heroin. A would-be escort, rather a streetwalker, notoriously low on cash is suddenly able to throw around money? Hugh mentioned that he had been questioned concerning the “fuck-photos“, there was the connection, obviously.

So, Sherlock looked for news reports of blackmail or fishy deaths, scanned the yellow press for the latest scandals and went over NSY´s files from approximately ten weeks ago. He still had Lestrade´s password and he suspected that the D.I. actually was well aware of Sherlock´s continued digital trespassing but deliberately chose not to change it and ignore the whole situation to be able to claim unknowing if things went south.

Sherlock found a lot of information but nothing that would catch his attention especially. He finally came up with 11 deaths of people standing in the public interest in the last weeks before Gerald´s sudden wealth. Seven male persons: two sportsmen (tennis and running), an older stage actor, a local politician and a M.P., a young YouTuber and the owner of a private bank. Four had been female: the woman from the BBC weather channel, a middle-aged movie star, a painter and a noblewoman from East Anglia.

Sherlock decided it would be too much effort to research all these somehow suspicious deaths in earnest and also the assumed blackmail victim could either be an Everyman or of course be still alive.

Sherlock forced himself to sum up his current leads and deductions.

First: the serial killer (had to be serial, the other missing rent boys were most definitely dead) was deliberately targeting the participants of the CLEEN trial, meaning that

Second: he (let´s call the killer a he, statistically more likely) had deliberately broken into the labs of Silverblack, stole two laptops to get information concerning the partcipants of the trial, meaning that

Third: the killer did not know whom he had to target exactly but only knew his mark was a drug addicted rent boy in this clinical trial which made the culprit

Forth: dangerous because he readily went along with collateral damage. He did not care for addicts, hated them, as well as prostitutes, considering them scum of which the Earth had to be cleared, meaning that

Fifth: Gerald, who was the last target which had not been attacked so far, as far as Sherlock knew, because Gerald vanished with a lot of money after buying a ridiculous amount of heroin to indulge in, meaning that

Sixth: Gerald was the one who committed the original crime which set the killer on his revenge spree, so having to be the real target. He had blackmailed someone the serial killer cared about, most likely this person was dead now (suicide due to desperation probably) so that the killer´s wrath went to the urge for torture as a means of retaliation for the hurt done to his loved one (caring is not an advantage, really), but

Seventh: the killer only knew that his object of hate and derision was a participant of the trial and a rent-boy but he had no name or photo and simply tried to find all five matching men in Silverblack´s list.

So, all his musings culminated into: sooner or later Gerald would contact his preferred dealer, meaning: tail the dealer, find Gerald, find the killer.

Close case, call John, schedule a date.

_Oh, a date is it now, isn´t it? Yes, indeed. A date. Sherlock Holmes is trying to date someone._

Sherlock cringed internally and his intestines coiled into a tight ball of anxiety.

_God, this is humiliating. I´m completely unpractised concerning dating. Where can I take John? Should I invite him to come over to the flat afterwards?_

The only restaurant coming into Sherlock´s mind that he found suitable enough for _dating_ John would preferably be Angelo´s. He knew the owner, he could show off with saving Angelo from a long prison sentence and John had to be impressed by his brilliance, again. Also, John was likely to value good home-cooked Italien food.

_John is way too thin! I´ll have to feed him up. I guess. That´s what Mrs Hudson always keeps trying with me. Anyway, Angelo likes to light a candle at his tables, more romantic he´d say. Would John appreciate a romantic setting? Or find it sappy like I do?_

_Or is that too intimate for a first date? If there would be a date. John dresses in comfy jumpers, he´s definitely the cuddly type, he must have a romantic streak… God, this is all so terribly complicated._

_What if I mess this up? I loathe feeling so insecure, it´s just not on! Have to concentrate on the case… maybe I should ask Angelo to get rid of the candle?_

The sudden ringing of Sherlock´s mobile actually made the detective jump like a nervous teenager. He´d been so immersed in his mind palace (which sort of slowly converged into a John Palace at the moment) so that the piercing sound sent a lightning bolt of shock through his system.

The caller identified as Lestrade who´d sent him a text. The D.I. already had painfully learned that Sherlock was a texter and not a talker on the phone.

**Molly´s autopsy report is done on the dead rent boy. If you come tomorrow to the morgue, we could talk about it. Got any new leads?**

Even through text Lestrade sounded desperate for any clues. Which led Sherlock to a spur-of-the-moment decision. He´d invite Lestrade tomorrow, disclose his findings and deductions concerning Gerald Summer and shove the case back into the hands of NSY. They should be able to do their job tracking down Gerald. Like he mused earlier on, _find Gerald, find the killer_ it was.

Sherlock was fed up with impersonating Shezza and he longed to be free to deal with the much more challenging _case_ of Dr. John Watson.

_Yes! That´s the spirit!_

**Meet me tomorrow 11.30am at 221b. Bring autopsy report. Case nearly solved. Have to check some more facts. SH**

**Sherlock, that´s great news. See you tomorrow, then.**

**Fine. SH**

Sherlock simply cut off Lestrade´s texting. He was eager to text John instead. It still felt embarrassing like hell but he was irrevocably hooked on John Watson. After Sherlock had made his decision to sort of ditch the case, which was kind of mostly solved anyway, not that this was a habit but, well, he had this thrilling John-mystery to follow. Also, he would not _stop_ looking for the missing rent boys, but if the killer would be found, so would be the missing hookers.

**Hello doctor, since the case is as good as finished, would you like to meet me tomorrow at 12am at 221b? I know a restaurant that serves really delicious traditional pasta. We could go there for dinner, if you´d be amenable? SH**

Hopefully John would go along and could be lured into a date by the outlook of receiving delicious food. A date it was. There was no way to sugar-coat that.

Sherlock anxiously waited for a reply that did not come, hoping he had not scared John off. It was already quite late and maybe John had simply switched off his phone being tired and done after a long strenuous day? He really missed John.

Sherlock had fallen into a reverie about the exact colour of John´s hair when his mobile chimed once more. The sound literally made him jump and he hit his kneecap with a painfully crunching sound against the table he was sitting at. John had called back!

_Fuck, No._

_Sadly Billy Wiggins. Not the man of my dreams. Ugh. Since when do I dream of John? I´m so fucked. Fucking emotions!_

Still, the message sent a jolt of excitement through Sherlock. It read:

**Shezza, meet my colleague 9pm, front of SpaceShip Club, he said Gerald wants to buy.**

_Oh!_

_Yes!!!_

The elusive Gerald Summer was to buy his next stash of heroin. Sherlock would get to Gerald, follow him, interrogate and subdue him and wrap up the case for good this time. Tomorrow he would meet Lestrade to shove the solution and the evidence at him before shoving Grant out of his flat. After that he could be done with the whole fucking rent boy case.

_Of course rent-boys were fucking, that´s basically their job, ah sod this…_

_Shezza_ would be thrown back into the locker and _Sherlock_ could emerge and fully concentrate on John. Meeting him.

_Oh God. Yessss!_

_Oh God, no! What shall I wear? And how do I get rid of the fake track marks?_

Sherlock swiftly changed into his Shezza persona. He settled for the scuffed trainers, tattered “blue“ jeans and another ragged hoodie, pocketed a cheap burner phone because he did not want to become distracted by any calls or messages whatsoever, so he left his mobile at the flat.

He quickly mussed his hair and caught a cab to the club. It was located in a seedier part of Soho and well-known to be a spot for gay pick-ups and purchasing illicit drugs.

Sherlock got off a street corner away from the SpaceShip Club, walked the rest of the way by foot and found Billy´s colleague lurking around the side entrance in a dimly lit back-alley. Which was extremely cliché but reality nonetheless. He gave Steven a tiny nod while he passed by, got a tiny nod back and found a dark niche in which he could hide but clearly see the spot where the dealer waited.

Sherlock could squeeze himself into the tiny space just in time before he heard footsteps of heavy boots getting near. He peeked around and finally got a glimpse of the highly sought-after Gerald Summer. The man was of medium height, rather muscled and sported bleached blonde messy hair at shoulder length. He wore a tight red t-shirt which showed off his bulging arms, clearly from a lot of time spent with pumping iron and tight fitting black cargo pants.

The transaction, meaning the exchange of a wad of banknotes versus a relatively large plastic baggie with white powder in it, went by smoothly in an innocuous way. The dealer ambled off towards Sherlock´s end of the back-alley while Gerald took the other direction and turned around the corner leading to the club´s main entrance. He got instantly tailed by a very excited Sherlock.

_Finally! I follow him to his place, then corner him and convince him to go to NSY with me if he doesn´t want to get tortured and killed like the other hookers._

It could have been so easy.

But again, fate and luck were not on Sherlock´s side.

He had trailed Gerald without difficulty several streets in Soho busy with party-people as he suddenly became aware that he was not the only one to tail the hooker. Sherlock stopped to light a cigarette and eyed the passers-by on his side of the street.

There!

There was the man who called himself “Master“ and he definitely was following after the rent boy. He was limping on his injured knee and held his shoulder stiffly which gave Sherlock a rush of satisfaction knowing that the man hadn´t gotten away from their fight unscathed. He grinned smugly, thinking about being the reason for the vicious black and blue bruises on Master´s face.

Sherlock turned to fiddle with his lighter as Master passed him and the detective went unrecognized, since he was too focused on not losing his prime target.

 _How can Master be here? Steven obviously blabbed. The wanker! He must have told_ me and Master _of the meeting with Gerald. Fucking snitch!_

Master caught up with Gerald and spoke to him. At first Gerald shook his head but Master waved two hundred pounds at him and made a sucking movement with his lips. Gerald became pensive and hesitantly nodded. They crossed the street together and walked to a small cul-de-sac.

_So eager to take some quickly earned cash then. 200 for a blow job? Can´t be worth that much. He is greedy. Greed killed the cat. Or so they say? Nonono don´t go into a dead end with him you stupid…_

But it was too late. Sherlock could only watch the scene unfold. Gerald followed Master into the alley not realizing that it was set-up to catch him. A conspicuous pick-up was parked in front at the main street. It took only three minutes before Master resurfaced and now dragged a stumbling and limp Gerald towards the car. He shoved the hooker who feebly tried to resist onto the co-driver´s seat and started the engine.

_Nonononononononono!!!!!_

Sherlock could not let them get away. Gerald would be killed and the murderer would disappear having accomplished his task of revenge. That was could not be allowed to happen. A desperate idea formed in the detective´s head.

He feigned being drunk and stumbled across the street right in front of the pickup as it pulled off the curb. The flashy bull bar painfully collided with Sherlock´s lower ribs. Master decelerated und shouted a flow of curses out though the side window. Sherlock ranted back. His ribs hurt but he had successfully stopped the pickup from driving away.

He made a rude gesture towards the driver, staggered around the side of the pickup and used the moment of inattention as Master had to wait to pull back into traffic. Sherlock hauled himself onto the cargo bed. Thankfully he plopped onto a blanket instead of raw metal so that he made no sound.

The blanket was old, dirty and strongly smelled of at least two dogs. His ribs sent pounding waves of pain up along his spine. He carefully prodded his side and found them badly bruised but not broken. Sherlock covered himself with the blanket to stay out of view.

They drove for several minutes, Sherlock could tell that they were heading for the docklands, before the pickup slowed down. The detective froze and hoped that Master was too busy with handling Gerald and would be oblivious to the new lump under the blanket on his cargo bed. He made himself as flat as possible and held his breath.

He heard Master swearing and dragging an unconscious and heavy body away while cussing at his hurting knee. Sherlock carefully raised his head and peeked out over the side of the cargo bed and saw Master entering a derelict building. The lopsided sign over the front door read “Megan´s Home for Animals in Need“.

Sherlock had to wait for Master and his victim to enter through the main door. There was no way of hiding in front of the building as the car had been parked on the cracked tarmac of a disused parking lot. The scenery was bleak and depressing, a rusted and sunken in wire fence surrounded the flat and crumbling main building and to the right and left side were rotting dog houses that sat inside desolate kennels where dirt and filth of all kind had piled up in the corners.

The door slammed shut and Sherlock waited for about a minute before he nimbly climbed out of the cargo bed. His ribs still throbbed in pain with every move but he chose to ignore his transport´s cries of discomfort as he always did. He sneaked to the door, planning on slipping quietly inside. Then he cursed under his breath.

There was a state-of-the-art combination lock blocking the entrance. A lock with a six digit number to be punched into the electronic device. Completely out of place in an environment like that and also skilfully hidden underneath a metal plate beside the door. This place was obviously essential to be protected from nosy passers-by, squatters or other low-lifes.

_So here we are. Master found another place for interrogation, torture and murder after the shack in the junkyard had been compromised._

Unfortunately, Sherlock could not just pick the lock. All his skill was for nothing as he knew very well that he only had three attempts to get the number right or he´ll set off an alarm. He examined the other three sides of the animal shelter but only found windows which were blocked by heavy grates, too small for him to squeeze between the bars. The back door was boarded-up with thick planks that would make awful loud and screeching noises if he would try to pry them open. Apart from the lack of an available crowbar.

Sherlock returned to the electronic lock and took a thorough look at the buttons. He could tell by the amount of grease on them that the first three numbers most likely had to be 714 but the other three were obscure. There was also the possibility of 7, 1 or 4 featuring double in the code or even triple. Too risky to just try rather random combinations. There had to be another way to get in. To get in quick! But how?

Sherlock crept back towards the pickup. A side window was still halfway down and he could angle his long arm and fingers just so that he could open the door from the inside. He slid onto the driver´s seat and examined the contents of the various compartments and the glovebox. He found nothing of importance. Sherlock sighed.

He looked under the seats and found nothing, he looked into the legroom and found nothing as well. He grunted. He got out and entered the backseat. Nothing in the legroom again. He shook the ratty rug which lay crumbled in a corner and a small booklet fell out. Exasperated, Sherlock grabbed it and…

_Yes! Thank God for the stupidity of the common human being! Has he possibly written down… Oh, Yes!!!_

…it was the instruction manual to a brand new electronic lock. Sherlock flicked through the pages and there in the chapter on how to program a new code and directly below the advice to not write down the code was the number: 717-498.

With a triumphant groan Sherlock hurried towards the main entrance and punched in the numbers. The lock whirred and clicked open. Sherlock slipped inside, without fastening the lock again to keep the door open in case a hasty retreat should be necessary.

He found himself in a smallish lobby of a clearly long-term abandoned building. It was dirty, grimy and dusty everywhere apart from an obvious trail where the dust had been dispersed by walking feet.

_Dust is always eloquent._

He followed the trail and froze when he suddenly heard a terrified wail from somewhere… below? A slapping noise and a following muffled scream led the way to a small and dimly-lit staircase.

_Oh. Master has already started with Gerald´s interrogation then. Shit! I missed eight minutes and 25 seconds when he first entered the door with his victim… I´ll have to subdue Master instantly before he severely hurts Gerald. I can interrogate him later when he´s captivated._

Those were Sherlock´s thoughts while he carefully and quietly sneaked down the stairs, into a small vestibule with one door located at each of the three walls. Two were closed. The middle one was ajar and the sound of another slap and scream could be heard. Time was pressing.

Sherlock had learned from his previous mistake entering the shack at the junkyard unarmed so he had brought an adjustable trekking pole with him. The aluminium alloy was sturdy yet flexible and heavy enough to use it as a pole weapon or he could also use the tip to perform a spear-like attack.

Sherlock had been practicing the martial art of Bartitsu since he had been a teen and was well-versed in it. He still went regularly to practice in the one London dojo that the original founder of the technique had established back in 1898: The Bartitsu Academy of Arms and Physical Culture still located in Soho.

Anyway, Sherlock was lacking a gun and he mused shortly about having the convenience to own an illegal army issue weapon like the attractive Dr. John Watson before he chided himself and forced his brain to focus on the upcoming task.

_Fight now, pine later, Sherlock!_

Also, he was not familiar with shooting a gun so he felt much more confident to rely on his Bartitsu skills. It would not be the first time he had to use these. The gunshot wound at his calf had closed and was healing well and as long as the delicate new flesh would not have to suffer a direct impact he could move without thinking about it. Thanks to the most skilful and gentle stitching of one alluring Dr. John Watson.

_Focus Sherlock, dammit!_

He knew he had to be quick and silent and he pondered on what exactly would be the best strategy to subdue Master as he carefully peeked around the door frame. There were some moves and techniques he´d better avoid because the ribs on his right side were still sore and hurting. Sherlock was very adept at ignoring his injuries and shutting out the pain, but he was not so stupid to not calculate being impaired by them in a situation where he had to fight.

What he could see behind the door was a filthy room lit by three flickering neon lights and a bare and cracked concrete floor. Rusty kennels ran along the damp walls. It smelled of mould and animal excrements. Gerald was already tethered to a wooden chair in the middle of the room and Master stood before him with his back towards the door while pummeling Gerald´s face with slaps and punches with his good arm while the hooker screamed and pleaded for mercy.

Sherlock opened the door a little bit further so that he could get a view of the whole room. On the right side of Master he could see a tripod with a tiny camera attached on top. The blinking red light indicated that the sick bastard was recording on a flash drive how he tortured his victim. 

Sherlock grabbed the now elongated trekking pole firmly at one end with both of his hands. Holding it that way, he could use the pole as well for attacks which originated from the Japanese samurai sword fighting, like straight or diagonal blows from above versus the opponent´s head.

Sherlock planned on placing a strong diagonal blow from behind against Master´s temple, which would overpower him. In fact, it was just a matter of the amount of impact you´d create via acceleration due to the correct technique onto a small area and you´d easily be able to crush someone´s bones. Or skull. Not that the detective would go for a direct killing but if he´d hit his target in the way he planned Master would be unconscious without even realizing it.

Taking one last deep breath and bracing himself Sherlock slid through the door and sneaked up effortlessly behind Master. He raised his pole and started to swivel it above the crown of his head to create the necessary speed for the blow. The pole went down with a small hissing noise as the air got parted by the weapon. His aim was perfect. Master was oblivious to it all.

Until Gerald made a surprised noise as he must have glimpsed a bit of Sherlock standing behind his torturer. Which caused Master to start turning around to be able to see what was going on behind his back. Which caused Sherlock´s otherwise immaculate blow to stray from the temple and instead hit Master´s left collarbone with a loud crack. Master howled in pain and his hand went instinctively towards the collarbone which was again to be strongly hit but kept turning around to face his attacker.

Sherlock took a step backwards to have enough space for executing a direct spear-like thrust with the pointy tip of his trekking pole towards Master´s solar plexus.

_Fuck, the bastard´s really quick!_

Sherlock cursed inwardly as he watched Master take a step backwards as well to put some distance between them. Still running completely on instinct, he moved his body out of the line of the thrust and managed to grab the end of the pole with both of his hands in an attempt to yank it away and to disarm Sherlock.

But Bartitsu had an answer for that. In fact, Sherlock had hoped on Master to act like this. He kept a firm grip on his pole, moved his hips together with his weapon centered in front of his body to the other side. Master kept holding onto the pole and due to his own kinetic energy which was now working against him, his body had to follow the next direct thrust Sherlock performed. That way Master was forced into a forward roll and since he had no practise with tumbling, he crashed into the wooden chair including a screeching Gerald. The chair toppled over as both men went down.

Sherlock followed quickly with two steps forward and was able to land a blow to Master´s temple as he had originally planned. The man went limp instantly when he lost consciousness. Sherlock let go of his weapon and searched for a pulse at the jugular vein and checked if Master was still breathing.

Satisfied with his achievement to subdue the culprit without killing him he started to cuff Master´s hands with a pair of police-issued handcuffs which he had pickpocketed from Lestrade. All the while Gerald who lay on his side and was still fastened to the chair, screamed his head off. Which was utterly annoying.

“Just shut up you blithering idiot! I´ll free you in a minute, no need to blow my eardrums!“ Sherlock shouted back at the frantic man.

The ruckus Gerald made drowned out any other noises.

Which was Sherlock´s demise.

He never heard the blow towards his own temple coming. Stars collided behind his eyes, exploding in a supernova and the world went mute and black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesss, another mean cliffhanger (evil smile)! You should not be surprised anymore…  
> It´s really a wonder that Sherlock does not suffer from major brain damage, the poor sucker always gets hit on the head…
> 
> A longer comment concerning Bartitsu in general and Aikido in special  
> It´s safe to ignore my Martial Arts rambling if you´re disinterested, it doesn´t matter in the context of further reading
> 
> I was always so dissatisfied that there were no such Martial Arts moments in the show (I don´t mean boxing) apart from when Sherlock defended himself against the sword attack at the beginning of Blind Banker. Also, I haven´t yet read a fanfic where Sherlock uses pole techniques (no critique, mere observation) and I read a lot of them (please comment if you know one). Right from the beginning of this fic I swore to let Sherlock have a BAMF martial arts moment since I´ve been fascinated with several martial arts myself and practiced Iwama Ryu Aikido for a long time.
> 
> Concerning Bartitsu, yes, with a “T“, ACD wrote Baritsu which is in fact a misspelling (look it up in Wikipedia), in 1898 Barton-Wright founded the Bartitsu Academy of Arms and Physical Culture in Shaftesbury Avenue 67b in Soho. It does not exist anymore, that´s my writer´s freedom for this fic.  
> The following paragraphs are a direct copy from excerpts of the English Wikipedia site.
> 
> Quote: 
> 
> In 1898, Edward William Barton-Wright, an English engineer who had spent the previous three years living in Japan, returned to England and announced the formation of a "New Art of Self Defence". This art, he claimed, combined the best elements of a range of fighting styles into a unified whole, which he had named Bartitsu. 
> 
> Based on Barton-Wright's writings upon this subject, it is evident that Bartitsu placed greatest emphasis upon the Vigny cane fighting system at the striking range and upon jujutsu (and, secondarily, the "all-in" style of European wrestling) at the grappling range. Savate and boxing methods were used to segue between these two ranges, or as a means of first response should the defender not be armed with a walking stick. 
> 
> The stick fighting component was based on the two fundamental tactics of either feinting/striking pre-emptively or "baiting" the opponent's strike via a position of invitation. Fighting from the style's characteristic high- and double-handed guard positions, stick strikes and thrusts targeted the opponent's face and head, throat, elbows, hands and wrists, solar plexus, knees and shins. The Bartitsu stick fighter would often incorporate close combat techniques such as trips, throws and takedowns, which probably represent a fusion of the Vigny stick system with jujutsu.
> 
> End Quote.
> 
> If anyone really should have recognized the technique I let Sherlock use to subdue Master, it is taken from the Japanese martial art of Aikido, especially one of the jo-nage techniques (defence if someone tries to grab your wooden pole, the “jo“ and “nage“ meaning “throw“). 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OPwUF7CvD9U
> 
> Watch that in case you´re interested in what I tried to describe. The difference would be that Master did not tumble so gracefully (you learn that when practicing Aikido so you don´t harm yourself or your partner) and crashed into that chair instead. If done correctly, you´ll get an enormous amount of kinetic energy you have to deal with if you keep holding onto the pole. You´d do that by instinct because if you let go, you´d have the weapon moving free directly in front of your vulnerable abdomen and you won´t like that…
> 
> Since no one really seems to know what they were doing exactly in Bartitsu back then I thought it could be something like this. Writer´s freedom again.


	18. CONCERN

It´s like an avalanche, I feel myself go under

`Cause the weight of it´s like hands around my neck

I never stood a chance, my heart is frozen over

And I feel like I am treading on thin ice

And I´m going under

Avalanche, Bring Me The Horizon

John had been antsy the whole morning. He had slept late, having thought about Sherlock for a very long time the evening before.

_To be fair, I have pined for Sherlock is more precise. He´s utterly taken over my brain. I can already hear his voice as he´d definitely state now that there´d be nothing much to take over in the first place. The bastard._

John had already been intrigued by “Shezza“ right from the start and had more than one time wondered about himself that he felt attracted to a seedy homeless addict. But the man had been so extraordinary, so brilliant and so completely nonconformist concerning so-called “normal“ social behaviour that John had been swept away with this personality´s force of nature.

When he had parted from Shezza the first time without any chance to get in contact with the junkie (and he had so easily accepted his (fake) drug abuse) (- and dismissed his terrible status of personal hygiene) John had felt deprived of the glimpse of sunlight which Shezza had provided. A glimpse of a life full of surprise and change and wonderful deductions. Missing that ray of light in the constant murkiness of his never changing boring life had hurt like an open wound. The lust for life Shezza had instilled had been painfully drained when the addict left him behind in that fateful alley.

When they met again and it was all danger and excitement in abundance and, yes, well, also quickly rising anger at the obnoxious arsehole who scared the shit out of him having broken into his bedsit and causing a flashback that made John shoot Shezza/Sherlock.

Afterwards he´d smiled like a maniac at John when he had admired his crack shot skills. Any normal person would have run away screaming from such a madman, but John became only more enamoured with Shezza. What did that say about John´s personality? Better not go down that way.

Then Shezza stated in a by-the-way attitude that he had been shot for real and needed John to stitch him up. He had told a wild story of only posing as a homeless drug addict and claimed to be helping the rent boys finding a serial killer which John did not believe until he had visited Sherlock´s flat.

Never would John forget the moment when a clean and good smelling and _so fucking gorgeous_ looking Sherlock, a fucking gorgeous looking, _nearly naked_ Sherlock had emerged out of his shower. John had been hard-pressed to hide the immediate boner that sight had given him.

Thank god Sherlock had been so obsessed with griping about John washing his filthy clothes that the usually so observing man had been utterly oblivious to John´s embarrassing state of arousal. And God, aroused he had been. Painfully hard.

Never before had John felt such a surge of attraction to someone after such a short amount of time and even more astonishing he found himself to already _trust_ this dodgy junkie even if he still believed Shezza lied about his addiction. The way he had looked, behaved and smelled in that alley should have done anything else but induce trust.

Even more, John felt sure that the attraction was mutual. The way the otherwise so self-assured, cocky and rude and giving-a-shit attitude showing man had been flustered, intimidated and utterly insecure and even defeated after John decked him in a bout of frustration and the feeling Sherlock was leading him on (trust issues, his therapist would have had a field day observing this) had been… endearing.

Sherlock had been so heartbreakingly anxious and shy and afraid of having pushed away John that he admitted he felt being a social failure and not having friends because of who he was. He´d been so hopeful that John would still like to be around him and willing to become friends that John´s heart had simply melted.

John knew he´d try to unhinge the world to just make this _lovable_ man happy and to show him that his uniqueness was appreciated by John and was the real reason why he felt attracted to him in the first place.

When the abduction situation started it had felt like the long missed war to John. In fact that had been the moment when he himself had realized for the first time with a not so insubstantial amount of chagrin that he indeed missed the chaos, danger and uncertainty working in a war zone had meant.

Which did not diminish his shocked bafflement as umbrella-man stated that fact dryly to John as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Decking the wanker had also felt _exceptionally awesome_. Especially when that person had showed an expression of total disbelief and even shock that someone would not be intimidated by Mighty Mycroft.

To be fair, if John had known how much power that man wielded he would never have decked him at all. But strictly refusing Mycroft´s insidious and immoral proposal of spying on Sherlock? John would have done that in any possible reality, ever. Loyalty and the strong dedication to protect Sherlock no matter the cost. You could make fun of that but these were two of the headstones of John´s personality.

After punching Mycroft the day had become better still. John had followed Sherlock to his flat which was actually real and perfectly mirrored the mesmerizing quirky and chaotic being of its owner. It was then John finally believed that Sherlock was truly a detective. Also, the way John had found out that Sherlock was also the epitome of a Mad Scientist had been one of the most hilarious situations he´d ever been in.

_Being ordered to count charred maggots. Collecting escaped giant human liver eating maggots. I´ll never forget that. 54 living and 27 shrivelled specimen. They´d be all over the flat now, having developed into giant flies… I wonder what Sherlock did with the remains. I´m sure that he instantaneously forgot the whole thing after he´d scribbled the numbers into his notebook._

John had at once fallen in love with the cramped and eclectic flat. It was full of personality and life and uniqueness. It was the exact opposite of John´s bland depressing lifeless bedsit. He mused about living at 221b. He was sure he´d be surprised every day. Never bored. Also mostly driven up the wall by Sherlock´s behaviour, but that was just the package deal, wasn´t it? John wanted it so much.

_But I can´t ask if he´d share his flat with me. What would he think? Is there even a spare bedroom? I won´t mind sharing his, but that´s sort of creepy admitting when you don´t really know a person…_

When Sherlock´s text arrived inviting John to his flat for having lunch and to talk about the solved case he was on cloud nine. He immediately texted his acceptance of the date back.

Sadly, the consulting detective never saw John´s answer because he left his mobile at Baker Street when he exited his flat to follow Billy´s text concerning Gerald.

John was so excited that he could not sleep and when he finally dozed off it was another night without bad dreams.

He woke up to his pajama pants being wet and sticky in a certain place. He had dreamt about Sherlock´s silky hair, his milky skin, his jewel-coloured eyes and this taut arse. John decided to take a shower immediately to take care of his rock-hard erection.

He had no qualms about giving in to his fantasies concerning Sherlock.

Feeling better, he made himself tea and ate his default apple for breakfast before he stood a pathetic long time in front of his wardrobe´s meagre contents. John was breaking his mind about what he should wear. For his date. He hoped it was a date.

_An invitation to lunch is a date, has to be, or is it not? Italian food sounds great. One could suck the long spaghetti into one´s mouth and think of sucking something else._

_Get a grip, John!_

Settling for a relatively new pair of dark blue jeans and a nice light blue shirt, John took a huge effort to shave and comb his hair neatly. He tied his oatmeal knitted jumper casually around his shoulders which gave him the appearance of a sporting yacht´s captain on a casual shore leave. He scrutinized himself in the mirror and found his image trendy without being overdressed.

John took the tube for Baker Street station and was so anxious about arriving in time that in the end he was twenty minutes early. He wandered up and down the sidewalk in front of 221b for five minutes like an idiot before he couldn´t wait any longer and reached with slightly trembling fingers for the door knocker.

John was so full of pent-up nervousness and anticipation that he squeaked and jumped back when the door opened from the inside and a cute old lady exited with a basket around her arm. The delicious scent of freshly baked lemon cake wafted out beneath a checkered kitchen towel.

“Oh. You must be _the_ Dr. Watson. I´m Martha Hudson, Sherlock´s landlady. Pleased to see you. He told me about meeting you.“ She chattered and smiled fondly at John. “So nice he´ll have a friend around. He´s alone far too much.“

_Sherlock talked to her about me? He said I´m his friend?_

“Er, yes, I am. John Watson, pleased to meet you, too.“ John replied rather absent-mindedly because he wondered what else Sherlock might have told her and a warm fluttering feeling settled in his stomach which had nothing to do with the outlook on eating spaghetti.

“Just go upstairs. I´m off for Mrs. Turner´s Bridge round. You know she´s rented her flat to married ones.“

Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow and gifted John with a conspiratorial wink before she patted his upper arm and left.

_Why did she wink at me like that? What married ones?_

John stared at her back as the little lady walked across the street. He shook himself mentally gathering his composure, before he climbed the seventeen steps up to Sherlock´s flat. He was fifteen minutes early and found the door slightly ajar. He could hear the sound of someone rummaging through a cluttered drawer and rustling with papers. John chuckled and imagined Sherlock making his messy desk even more chaotic.

_Maybe he´s searching for new maggot-y offspring._

John had the sudden idea to sneak upon Sherlock and startle him. That would be a perfect retaliation for the two times the git had made him jump. On silent feet John entered the large living room which was in an alarming state of disorder, meaning it was the equivalent of Sherlock-normal.

What was not normal was the man bent over the desk and shamelessly rummaging around Sherlock´s belongings. The bloke was older than John, wore a short trenchcoat and had close-cropped dark hair lined with silver. The man grunted annoyed since he had obviously not yet found what he was searching for and went to rifle through a cardboard box sitting on the coffee table.

He had not noticed John standing in the door frame. The doctor was frowning ever more at the intruder. The man dumped the contents onto the table and shoved them around. John got the strong intuition that the man was not supposed to be doing this.

_Who´s this? Should he be here? Or is he trespassing? Sherlock´s not here. What the fuck is going on?_

The man bent down to look at a small black leather case. He flipped it open and grinned triumphantly. He was about to pocket it when the trenchcoat flapped and John caught a glimpse of a holster.

It was enough to jerk John into combat mode. The strong defensive streak he´d felt for Sherlock pushed to the top. The man was nosing around and represented a threat to the detective. He even carried a gun.

Thank God John never left his bedsit weaponless.

John tightened his hand behind his back around his own gun. In his best commanding voice he snarled, “What are you doing here?“

The way the man flinched guiltily at being caught out was enough to persuade John of the other´s trespassing. He routinely fell into his combat stance when the stranger stared at him in surprise before straightening his posture. His brows furrowed and a glare meant to intimidate was aimed at John.

“Who are you?“ The intruder snarled back.

Intimidation did not work on John. Instead he glared back, only one instant away from pulling his gun as his anger rose. The housebreaker was unlawfully messing with Sherlock´s things. Protective instinct welled up and took over.

“Wrong answer. Try again.“

His opponent blinked and huffed. “Are you one of Sherlock´s Homeless Network?“

The second question John got instead of a proper answer irritated him immensely. The trespasser stood defiant and unwilling to cooperate. A vein at John´s neck pulsed and he clenched his empty hand into a fist.

When it finally registered that he had been mistaken for one of Sherlock´s dossers it was the final straw to let John´s cup of anger spill over. He drew the gun and targeted it at the man´s heart.

Several minutes earlier Greg Lestrade had overcome his surprise relatively quickly and took in the unfamiliar man who´d commanded him like a subordinate. Which did not sit well with the seasoned Detective Inspector who expected at least being treated respectfully. Apart from interacting with Sherlock, of course. This one had no filter, in fact never had had and clear as day never would have. His brilliance and usefulness made up for the lack of socially acceptable behaviour, but Lestrade would only grant this special lenience to the self-proclaimed consulting detective.

The man who stood bristling with anger in the door frame was the exact counterpart of Sherlock. A little short and stocky, close-cropped dark blond hair and ultimately plain clothing. If Sherlock were a bird of paradise, this bloke would be a house sparrow.

“ _You see but you don´t observe_.“ Sherlock droned in Greg´s mind. So observe he did.

Greg scrutinized the foreigner more accurately. He looked ordinary in plain blue jeans and an old-fashioned wool jumper but was too kempt for a homeless person. Having an average face and nothing remarkable about him, he was easily forgettable in a crowd.

_No, there´s… more. Just wait a sec. Combat stance… taut as a spring ready to jump into action. Army style haircut._

All the alarm bells rang in a hellish cacophony in the D.I.´s brain as he figured out he was facing an ex-military. An armed ex-military. Judging by the suspicious way he held his dominant hand behind his back. Who was about to draw a gun at him.

_Bugger!_

One had to give it to Lestrade that he had very good reflexes. He was not practising in the firing range for nothing. So just milliseconds after he realized a gun would be drawn from behind the back Greg´s hand flew to his holster, having his service weapon immediately pointed at the other´s heart.

_Fuck. Seems he had the same idea. What now? Classic standoff._

A feral grin appeared on the man´s face lighting up his deep blue eyes.

_Good God, he really enjoys it! Facing a gun. He fucking… relaxes when he is threatened._

Greg had seen his share of action movies and though he´d never admit it he actually enjoyed the stylish (and unrealistic) shoot out scenes where the good guy and the villain were pointing their guns at each other´s face, circling around and waiting for either to make a mistake. Maybe he´d never be able to savour those in the future now he found himself thrown into a fucking John Woo moment.

“What have you done to Sherlock?“ Accusation and subliminal threat laced the man´s voice.

Just like in the movies time condensed into a syrupy thing where every move was slowed down. Adrenaline raged in Lestrade´s blood as he began circling sideways to get a better position in this stalemate. The army guy radiated complete ease with the situation. A tiny smile settled onto his features as he began circling as well with confident ballet-like steps.

Greg growled. “Where is Sherlock?

John really, really enjoyed this. He knew of course that it was wrong and deranged and not good at all, but.

He. Liked. It.

The imminent danger of getting shot at, facing a man definitely used to handling a gun and having to navigate in close quarters made his blood sing. Adrenaline flooded his system and calmed him down. His hand was steady, his leg was stable and sodding umbrella-man had been right. He´d missed the war. Now he was back.

John shouted, “You tell me!“

With an abundance of experienced hostile situations to relate to John noticed that he was doing better, strategically speaking, than the older man. John had surveyed the whereabouts of the furniture in the flat before he´d targeted the stranger and when the circling started he used his knowledge and capacity to steer the man a little backwards with every step they took without him noticing. The man was oblivious, too concentrated on watching John and so it happened that he bumped into the edge of the coffee table behind him. The man flailed, shrieked and fell down.

John had to give him that he didn´t let go of his weapon but caught himself rather ungracefully while tumbling down and nearly toppled over the coffee table. The contents of the cardboard box went flying into the air as collateral damage before raining down onto the baffled man. He sat prone on his behind and blinked shocked at John. His gun pointed at the wall, no longer a threat, whereas John´s was still directed at his heart.

The large petri dish with the slimy remnants of Sherlock´s unholy kidney-maggot mix slipped sideways in slow motion and upended its contents with a sludgy sound right into the man´s lap. The look of disgust on his face was so comical and so incongruous to the situation that John burst out into laughter. Without letting go of his aim, of course.

Greg found himself sitting dumbly on the floor after tripping like a sodding police newbie. Over Sherlock´s stupid coffee table of all things.

_Ouch! Fuck! Shit, he´s got me prone. Shooting me now?_

Then the D.I. registered the yellowish-brownish slime seeping into his shirt and trousers. It reeked horridly.

_Yuck! This is gross._

“Fuck, what´s this disgusting stuff?“ He muttered, knowing the very instant these words were out that he was a moron.

_No, Sherlock, shut it! I know what you´re gonna say._

Greg probably should be concerned about much more pressing topics than slimy goo staining his clothes. Like being held at gun point, for example. He gaped stupefied as his maybe-shooter laughed gleefully.

“It´s the remains of Sherlock´s decomposing human kidney hatching maggots experiment.“

There were laugh lines all over John´s face and his eyes glittered. Who would have thought that the vile substance could be useful one time?

“What? How do you know that?“

Greg could not hide his surprise that he actually got an answer to the least pressing question of all possible questions. Nevertheless he was not getting shot at. Yet.

“Well, the maddening prat ordered me to collect the escaped hatched maggots and also commanded to count the cadavers that had charred on the hot radiator.“ John pulled a face at the memory. “They were fucking huge and writhed like hell.“ A cold shudder ran along John´s spine. “It was utterly gross!“

Greg released a deep breath in relief. “If anything possible, that answer confirms you _really_ know Sherlock.“

And so it came that Greg Lestrade, still a bit wary and suspicious concerning the angry army guy, slowly opened his fingers to let go of his gun. He raised his hands in a way to communicate truce.

“Then you´re a friend of Sherlock´s, too.“ John retaliated by also slowly lowering his gun but stayed poised to fight.

Greg sighed. “Frankly? I don´t know. He doesn´t do friends. He helps us with our cases.“

“Cases?“

“I´m Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of New Scotland Yard´s Homicide Division.“

John inhaled sharply and swallowed hard. This was an unexpected turnaround. This was Not Good. He tucked his gun back into his waistband as inconspicuously as possible and straightened his jumper over it.

“Can you identify yourself?“ he asked, seeking to deflect.

“Now, I can again.“

Greg chastised himself for letting that slip. Sherlock´s snarky voice filled his head with acerbic comments. Greg groaned. Even while absent the consulting detective´s quips were obviously omnipresent.

John raised a quizzical eyebrow. “How so?“

Greg blushed ferociously. “I´ve been looking for my badge since the blithering idiot pickpocketed me again last time we met“, Greg shrugged, “so I just took advantage that he was late to our appointment.“

A wave of sympathy for the D.I. hit John. “Oh, bugger. I can relate. First time we met he stole my wallet“, before he caught on, “wait, you´ve got a date with him now, too?“

“I wouldn´t call it a date. He more like ordered me to be here at 11.30 AM precise claiming he would take someone to lunch afterwards…“ Greg´s voice trailed off when a disconcerting thought crossed his mind.

John had raised a hand. “That´s me.“

“Jesus, don´t tell me he, like _Sherlock Holmes_ , has“, Greg swallowed while his stomach cramped, “invited _you_ to a date?“

John´s reply came out a bit more insulted as planned. “Why? Am I undateable to you?“ But still he held out his hand to help the D.I. stand up.

Clutching the hand firmly and getting onto his feet Greg backpaddled. “I meant Sherlock doesn´t date _anyone_.“

This was not the answer John had hoped for and a wave of insecurity threw him in a loop distracting him from the issue which still hung like a dark thundercloud in the room. He had aimed a gun at a police officer. An illegal gun. Thinking of the devil…

“Where did you get the army weapon from?“

_Yes, here it comes. Now I´m royally fucked._

John´s head turned bright red. “I´m Dr. John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, ex-RAMC, it´s my service weapon“ he admitted, hoping against all hopes that he could get away with that. Ignoring that he should not have kept his weapon. Not have smuggled it back home. Definitely not have brandished it in front of a policeman.

Greg squinted and eyed his counterpart, contemplating. “How do you know Sherlock?“

John decided telling a half-truth. “I met him in a back-alley some days ago. Later he needed my medical help.“

He did not know if the officer was privy to Sherlock´s current case or his investigation methods, not that John knew much himself, but the consulting detective´s actions were definitely not all lawful. Just think about his posing as a homeless addict…

An exhausted groan interrupted John´s musings. He looked up and saw Greg´s face contorted with concern and annoyance in equal shares.

“Oh, God. Please tell me that he´s not using again.“ Greg fisted a hand in his hair, tugging hard, clearly distressed.

John placated quickly, “Don´t worry, he didn´t“, and hesitatingly added, “so you know about the drug use?“

Greg snorted. “When I first met him years ago, he was severely addicted and high as a kite on cocaine. Had he carried on with that non-life of his, he would have been long dead. He was close to starving, lived on the streets and was in a state of horrendous neglect. Yet utterly brilliant. He kept his promise to get clean if I let him consult on cases.“

John was not surprised at all, his curiosity peaked and with a fond chuckle he inquired, “How did the consulting deal happen?“

Greg also grinned benignly. “In short, we found him overdosed beside a body and arrested him for homicide. In a blink he escaped his holding cell but instead of running away he invaded my office, commandeered all the evidence, solved the crime, revealed the murderer and proved that he had been set up in less than an hour.“

John whistled, “Fucking, hell! You must have been thrown.“

“Yeah, I was. It´s been the most impressive thing I´ve ever seen. He´d just survived an overdose and was crashing hard. I thought it would be such a waste of talent letting him carry on with slowly killing himself, so I made the proposal with consulting.“

“This is truly awesome.“

“Right, so he kept his end of the bargain and detoxed. He became even more brilliant when sober. The invading, commandeering and solving part has never changed. Also he never stopped being a royal pain in the arse.“

John offered Lestrade a package of tissues. “Here, use these. Better soak that soon.“

Greg stopped picking at the slime stains on his shirt, backtracking a line of conversation. “Why did Sherlock need your help?“

John decided to trust the D.I. at least with this part. After all the man had openly admitted to repeatedly fall victim to Sherlock´s pickpocketing.

“He got shot.“

“What?“ Greg let the tissues fall, shocked.

John hastened to explain, “He´s OK. Just a grazing shot to his calf, I sutured the wound.“

The D.I. groaned, “I really don´t want to know more. The stupid git has absolutely no sense for self-preservation.“

A moment of awkward silence followed. Greg wiped unsuccessfully at the stains while John nervously shuffled his feet before bracing himself, “Sorry about aiming at you. What will you do about that?“

Greg shot John a conspiratorial look, nodding slightly. “Nothing. I´ll just pretend it never happened.“

John´s eyes grew wide in disbelief.

Greg exhaled the sigh of a long suffering man. “When you have to deal with Sherlock Holmes on a regular basis, things are never going the official way.“

“Well, thanks a lot. Um, let me make us some tea while we wait for him.“ John entered the kitchen to put the kettle on.

Greg replied, “That´d be nice“, doubtfully adding in an afterthought, “are you sure it´s advisable to consume anything from Sherlock´s kitchen?“

John laughed heartily. “Oh, yeah, most definitely not. It just happened that I discarded the tea bags the lunatic had poisoned for an experiment and I know where the safe ones are.“

“That´s not exactly reassuring.“ Greg harrumphed in the background.

John fetched the box where he´d put in the good tea, opening it without looking and shoving his hand inside. Instead of finding a bag his closing fingers crumbled papery material interspersed with gummy bits. He withdrew his hand with a disgusted shriek and when Greg came running into the kitchen John deadpanned.

“I guess now I know what happened to the remains of the maggots.“

Lestrade burst into laughter seeing John´s face and pointed to a heap of tea bags lying abandoned beside the microscope. “I guess to Sherlock maggots are more important than tea.“

“That´s sacrilege,“ John cried, “his British citizenship should be forfeit!“

While they drank their tea both men felt a budding friendship arise. They chatted animatedly and waited for Sherlock Holmes who did not show up. When the D.I. was called away to a crime scene a cold lump of dread settled in John´s stomach since it was something about “another male prostitute found dead“.

“Sorry, I have to go.“ Greg was about to leave but turned around when he noticed the concern in John´s face, mistaking the reason for it.

“He often does not arrive to appointments in time. Most likely he got sidetracked with a case or simply forgot. No need to be concerned. He´ll show up eventually. Just text him and set up another meeting.“

The D.I. hurried out, leaving John behind who´d missed the opportunity to tell Greg about Sherlock´s undercover work. Which had to be clearly related to the body found dead. John remembered Sherlock telling him about several missing rent boys, one already murdered. Now there was a second one.

Thinking it through, John worried more and more. He texted Sherlock and upon hearing a beep emerging out of the bedroom he found the detective´s mobile on the nightstand. The worrying got worse. Something, gut instinct, or intuition, or whatever, told John that Sherlock was in danger.

Greg´s comment about lack of self-preservation added to the sickening dread and of course, there was the incident with the grazing shot. The urge to protect the consulting detective was overwhelming. John had to do something but had no idea where to start. Where to look or whom to talk to. The only thing he came up with was going back to the alley where they first met and ask around for “Shezza“. At least it was a beginning.

John shook his head in an exasperated yet fond way.

How could Sherlock have wormed into his soul like that? He´d only known the quirky man for several days but still, Sherlock had claimed a large space in John´s heart without even trying. Not that Sherlock would have been deliberately trying in the first place, obnoxious and aggravating personality and all. But John was fond of him. Very much so. He found Sherlock endearing, brilliant and yes, rude like hell.

The fact that the man looked fucking gorgeous was no hindrance either.

John used the rest of the day to search for Sherlock.

He went to the back-alley and found the hidden door to the transient hotel. He talked to the old crone who guarded the entrance like a dragon would protect its hoard. She told John nothing of importance concerning Sherlock. At least she offered the location of the park where the rent-boys waited for their clients.

John found the park as well and talked to at least a dozen hookers. At first, they were very forthcoming and affectionate, mistaking John for a client. But as soon as he´d started to inquire about Shezza they visually closed up. Their answers all amounted to “I don´t have his telephone number”, “I don´t know where he stays” and “try again tomorrow”.

After four miserable hours without achieving anything John gave up and went home. He had a bad feeling about it but knew that he´d tried as much as he could. He put his mobile at maximum volume close to his bed in order not to miss any call or text.

John fell into a fitful sleep and dreamt of searching for a curly-haired soldier who was lost in the desert about to die of thirst.


	19. OVERDOSE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the tags case-related violence/torture and drug use apply to this chapter

Waiting for the end to come, Wishing I had strength to stand

This is not what I had planned, It´s out of my control

Flying with the speed of light, Thoughts were spinning through my head

So many things were left unsaid, It´s hard to let you go

Waiting for the end, Linkin Park

When Sherlock came to he was feeling horrible.

_Pain._

_Meaning I´m still alive._

His head was fuzzy like a ball of cotton. His brain felt inflated and ready to burst. The thoughts ran sluggishly and imprecisely and _so fucking_ slowly. His right side where he had got hit by the pickup earlier was on fire, endless waves of pain rolling off his ribs and washing against the shore of his body.

His head hurt like hell. His body hurt like hell. There was a pulsing throbbing sensation whose origin was at his left temple. Everything hurt like hell.

Sherlock softly moaned while he further assessed his physical status. His scalp felt wet and warm and sticky. As did his face. The left cheekbone ached. His ribs ached.

_O.K. Had those already._

The gunshot wound at his calf ached. The skin on his knees burnt like fire. There was a dull pain and a sort of swollen feeling coming from his eye. His tongue was glued to his teeth. Several of them felt loose. There was a metallic taste in his mouth. His lips throbbed. There was something grinding into his wrists. The wrists ached, too.

_Fuck. Everything aches._

Sherlock tried to open his eyes but could only open one. He was unable to focus. His vision was blurry and the harsh light sent a stabbing pain into his eyeball. He closed the eye again.

_Concussion?_

He felt cold. He felt sick. Nauseated. Disoriented. He had to throw up.

_God, No!_

Sherlock retched heavily. He felt a rib giving way with the violent contortions his upper body was condemned to go through as he regurgitated a small amount of bile and gastric acid. Luck had it that he lay on his side or he might have suffocated on it. His gullet burnt now, too. He smelled the sickening stench of his vomit and tried to roll away from it.

Flopping onto his back he groaned in pain when his head hit the concrete floor and he also had crushed his own hands which were cuffed behind his back.

_With my own handcuffs. Or rather… Gordon´s. I´d laugh if I could._

With another gasp of pain he rolled onto his other side. The ache in his bruised ribs got a little bit less as they were now facing upwards. He needed several minutes to breathe against the assault of the various pains storming his brain, get his stomach under control and be able to gather more than just some random thoughts.

_Where am I? What happened?_

_Think, Sherlock, you´re being stupid!_

Sherlock drifted in and out of consciousness for about half an hour. His numbed senses were delivering a jumbled mess of perceptions. He tried to make sense of them and relate his various aches to what had happened. He started to run an inventory program in his mind palace, categorising and processing each physical sensation.

Blurry unfocused vision and a hellish headache. Sticky hair.

_Simple, hit on my head resulting in concussion. Laceration on temple, still bleeding. Someone crept up behind me._

The taste of blood, puffy face and one malfunctioning eye.

_Easy, punches to my face. Also kicks to my ribs. At least one broken, maybe two. Have been bruised from the pickup before._

The smell of bile.

_Clear as day._

Slowly Sherlock became aware that his sense of hearing was registering noises. Slapping and grunts of agony. Punching sounds and screams of terror. Two voices shouting at another one who pleaded. Interrogating, insinuating, insulting, full of hatred.

_Shit, there are TWO culprits. I had already tackled Master. The second person crept up behind me when I cuffed him and knocked me out. Master´s voice I recognize and the second one is… a woman´s? Who´s she?_

Vertical darker shades were in his line of sight reaching from top to bottom. He lay on uneven and slightly crumbled concrete.

_Oh. I´m locked in one of those disused kennels. They dragged me in on my stomach over the concrete floor and grazed the skin on my knees. Shezza´s sodding ripped jeans did nothing for protecting my skin._

His vision was still annoyingly off, so Sherlock closed his eye again and listened to the voices which came from several feet away. He lay still, dealt with the pain and concentrated. He knew that there was currently no chance to help Gerald. His wrists were cuffed and there was a rope binding his ankles. He was too weak, too injured and too unhinged to do anything but retreat into his mind and make sense of what he heard. Hopefully he would be able to come up with a plan if he could gather enough information.

Sherlock only grasped pieces of the ongoing “conversation“ because his ears kept ringing from the blow to his head and the scraps were interrupted with Gerald´s screams and groans.

“…greedy blackmailing bastard…“, “…loved him…“

“…please stop…“, “…drove him to commit suicide…“

“…didn´t want to…“, “…press hounded him…“

“…fucking junkie hooker…“, “…where are the photos…“

Sherlock became aware that he would possibly witness Gerald´s death. They´d kill him. No way they´d let him live. He had been the prime target right from the start. They even recorded everything on camera.

_I was right. Gerald blackmailed someone with gay sex photos. A wealthy man married to a woman. A man who was in the public eye and kept his homosexuality secret. Who broke under the pressure and killed himself. His wife seeks revenge and Master is the victim´s brother._

Sherlock would not be able to prevent Gerald´s death. The realization made him nauseous. But at least he had to try. His brain was superior to most of his fellow humans so he´d have to be able to come up with a plan, shouldn´t he?

_I´m right, but helpless. My body fails me. Gerald will die because I´ve been stupid. If I hadn´t checked on Master´s vitals I´d have seen the woman coming. Caring is really not an advantage._

_Fuck you, Mycroft._

Sherlock hated feeling powerless. He tried to speak up and talk the kidnappers out of it, wanted to argue with them, make them uncomfortable with his precise deductions and worm his way out of this situation, make them flee or give up or whatever and save Gerald but his tongue did not work properly. He remained mute.

His brain did not work properly.

He could not come up with a plan. He was lost. Reduced to mere flesh and pain.

_They´ll probably kill me, too… I don´t want to die that way._

_“Think, Brother Mine!“_ Mycroft´s voice scolded in the mind palace.

Sherlock lost consciousness again.

When Sherlock regained his senses for the second time it was not completely dark. It took him an embarrassing long amount of time to figure out that his one working eye was correctly focusing again but the other was so swollen he could not even open it a slit. He realized that it was just very dim in the cellar with a bit of daylight filtering in through a light well somewhere behind and above him. It was enough to see the bars of the dog kennel he was in, still handcuffed and still in _so much fucking pain_.

He was thirsty and his mouth was dry. No saliva left.

_How long have I been here? Must be several hours after I got caught, considering the level of my increasing dehydration. It´s day outside. Maybe noon?_

At least his headache was better and he could think more clearly than before. It was quiet, too. The kidnappers were gone.

_Is Gerald still alive? Where is he?_

Sherlock looked around in the dim light and searched for Gerald. He strained his ears to hear if someone else was breathing in the cellar. Nothing. No sounds of traffic or weather either. The lack of sensory input was disconcerting to his usually hyper-aware brain but on the other hand soothed his concussion.

_Have they left me here for good? Will they come back to finish me off?_

Sherlock wriggled and rolled around until his back was touching a wall. He managed to heave himself up into a sitting position leaning against the damp concrete. He could make out that his ankles were bound with a rope, probably the same type used for constraining the first rent boy they found dead. There was dried blood everywhere around the skin of his knees and on the destroyed jeans fabric around. The deep scrapes still burnt and distracted him from proper thinking.

_When was my last tetanus vaccination? There´s dust of animal excrements everywhere. Might become septic… ah, well, I´ll probably die of dehydration first if I don´t find a way out. Three days without water is fatal._

_Thank you brain for providing me with such helpful information._

He pushed himself along the wall with his tied feet to get a closer look at the lock on the kennel`s door. It was simple to pick. If he had his lock pick. If his hands were free. He was feeling exhausted and had to pause. His broken ribs were scraping against its neighbours and felt like poking into his lung.

_No one knows where I am. I avoided CCTV and took a burner phone so Mycroft can´t trace me. That´s just my fucking luck, the one time it would be convenient if Mycroft tracks me… he can´t._

If the detective concentrated hard he could see the chair where Gerald had sat earlier standing alone and empty and a vague silhouette behind which could only be the camera tripod.

_So. Master will return. He won´t leave evidence like this. He´d want to retrieve his camera._

Sherlock flinched when he heard heavy footsteps stomping down the stairs what he estimated to be two hours later. He let himself fall onto his uninjured side facing the door. It creaked open and the sudden flash of neon lights blinded him. Sherlock closed his eye but for a tiny slit and pretended to be unconscious. Which was easy, no need to pretend much currently.

In the strange tilted perspective of lying on the floor he saw legs moving through the cellar towards the far wall. A large heavy duty rubbish bag was thrown to the ground and a lock rattled open. Rusty hinges creaked. Shuffling noises ensued.

“God dammit the fucker´s heavy.“

It was Master´s voice that cussed. The rustling of plastic and the sounds of a body getting shoved around followed. “Get in there! This sucks.“

_This is not good. He´s disposing of Gerald´s body. Mine will be next._

Sherlock had frantically thought of a plan to talk his way out before. He only had one try.

“I´ve got the fuck photos“, Sherlock croaked into the room remembering the term Master gave them, “Gerald handed me copies as a reinsurance if something happened to him. If you don´t let me go they´ll be sent to every newspaper tomorrow.“

The rustling sounds stopped.

“What are you talking about you piece of junkie shit?“ Master snarled and limped over to Sherlock´s kennel. He hunkered down and stared balefully at him through the bars.

“The blackmail photos will be everywhere tomorrow along with a note that proves it was you who murdered the other rent boys.“ Sherlock kept his voice as confident as he could. Confidently threatening, hoping that Master would fall for his ruse. 

Master huffed a nasty laugh. He unlocked the door and shuffled in to crouch beside Sherlock who lay bound and helpless on his side. Sherlock suppressed the urge to flinch and get away from the scowling man but started to further argue.

A lightning-fast slap to his face made him grunt and involuntarily suck in a breath. Master used the moment to roughly shove a piece of fabric into Sherlock´s mouth and while the detective gagged and tried to spit it out a broad stripe of duct-tape put an end to all attempts.

“You shitty hooker really think you´d be able to trick me?“ Master spat and punched Sherlock`s face.

His nose broke and the white-hot searing pain nearly made him black out again. Sherlock felt the rush of blood welling up and angled his head to avoid it running down his throat. Otherwise the gag would let him asphyxiate. Just like that.

“I´ve tortured Gerald long enough to make sure he´d be unable to lie. He told me no one else knew a thing.“ Something metallic flashed into view and through the tears Sherlock could see a hunting knife with a jagged blade held close before his face. He involuntarily stiffened with rising fear.

“I´ve cut him up really pretty. He told me where he´d hidden the photos and everything.“ The knife was lowered and Sherlock felt a spiky pressure against his upper shoulder. Panic started to flood his mind palace.

“I´ve just come back from fetching them. So, don´t. You. Lie. To me.“ Master hissed and in a swift movement jerked the blade down. It cut like nothing through the hoodie, the delicate skin beneath and scraped along the collarbone. Sherlock screamed through the gag. He´d imagined the scream to be deafening but the gag only let out a muffled groan.

Sherlock must have passed out then because when he came to (for the third time) Master was gone. His shoulder was in agonizing pain and bleeding freely. Meaning that he could not have been unconscious for long. He focused on not throwing up this time. The kennel door was locked again and the bloodied hunting knife lay outside and out of reach only to mock him.

The one positive thing was that apart from his broken nose and the badly hurt collarbone Sherlock could not find any other new injuries.

_Small mercies…_

Sherlock found the main doors to his mind palace shut. He tried to open them and slip inside and separate himself from his body but realized he could not. He was too weak. He stared at the knife. There was a rectangular hole in the hilt. He became more and more certain that he was going to die for real this time.

_What a shit way to pass._

When Master returned he grabbed the camera tripod and the chair and vanished again. Sherlock heard the quiet splashing noises of his blood dripping onto concrete. The sound made him feel sleepy.

Sherlock startled when he was suddenly pushed onto his back. Master was inside his kennel and loomed above him. A flashlight went off and the detective groaned. Another flashlight flared up as Master made a second photo of Sherlock and grinned, feeling satisfied with the sight. He took out the camera´s flash drive and put it into the hole of his hunting knife.

_This is actually an awesome hideout._

_Oh, where did the syringe come from? Is he going to… fuck._

_Nooooo!_

Master yanked the blood soaked sleeve from Sherlock´s hoodie upwards and exposed the fake track marks on his elbow. The syringe pierced through cold sweaty skin, found a vein and the cool yet hot liquid got injected into his bloodstream.

_No. Nononononono! Please, NO!_

Master whispered balefully into Sherlock´s ear. “Here you are, junkie dosser. Had to get you an extra dose. That´s what you´re all out for, aren´t you? You´ll do anything for a hit. Sell your body, sell your soul, sell anyone for the drugs.“

He spat into Sherlock´s face. “You deserve to overdose just like the rest of them. Enjoy your final high!“

With a last spiteful punch into Sherlock´s stomach Master left. The cellar went dark and the door slammed shut.

Sherlock was alone and the heroin rush flooded his body.

It was heaven.

It was hell.

Oblivion called.

Sherlock´s veins bristled as the steamy sensation of the drug took a firm hold onto his blood. His body melted like ice in the desert and dissolved into nothingness. His physical perception faded, there was no more pain, just a fluffy floating feeling of golden bliss. He felt his brain separating from his body leaving the constricting broken shell behind as it soared away to a level of pure relaxation.

Sherlock remembered the few occasions he had shot up heroin to smooth the comedown from the cocaine. Usually he did not like the numbing sensation the drug had on his brain obviously preferring the focusing and accelerating effect of his liquid deliverance. He had speedballed several times but the dosage was tricky. Later on in his decline into severe addiction he simply could not afford to buy anything other than cocaine. Which was hilariously expensive. But of course, he could not give it up. That´s what addiction was all about, wasn´t it?

But back then he did not care about anything at all. There was nothing left beside the urge to get the next hit. He had no life. No purpose to live on. There was just nothing to gain. He was a failure and a filthy starving addict on the brink of dying. And it did not matter. No one cared about him. No one would miss him. He had no one to care for since he was utterly alone.

_But that has changed now, hasn´t it?_

Sherlock was vaguely aware that he was about to die from the intentional overdose Master gave him.

_How much did he inject?_

_Doesn´t matter._

Nothing else mattered. The heroin took care of that. Random thoughts floated through his disintegrating brain. His mind palace was wobbling and he got lost in the vast space. He opened random doors and stared with squinting eyes into the murky confines of his memory rooms.

Glimpses of his childhood. Shards of his days at uni. Fragments of conversations with Mycroft. Laughing with Sailor. Moments of wasting away in an abandoned graveyard with a stolen human skull for company.

He stumbled on and on and on for a time span he could not discern the length of until he came to a prison cell. He looked through the peeping hole and saw himself inside lying on the cot and Lestrade was talking to him. The DI was giving a repulsive junkie a second chance. He gave Sherlock a purpose to live for. A reason not to fade away in an endless drug induced haze and keep on living without being afraid of the emptiness.

_But it does matter now. I don´t want to die._

_I want more time._

_I have a life now. I´m a consulting detective._

More memories flickered over the huge movie screen of his perishing mind.

Solved cases.

Broken codes.

Reassembled puzzles.

He was good at what he did. Lestrade needed him. He was useful to NSY. The mysteries entertained him and kept him from climbing the walls with boredom and enabled him to ignore the siren call of cocaine.

_Gareth will miss me. He´s helpless without me. I had an appointment with him today._

_He won´t be able to solve the case of the missing rent boys. If I die I´ll let them down, too. They depend on me. No one else will stand up for them. They all deserve a second chance._

_Like me._

Sherlock realized that his respiratory frequency decreased dramatically. His lungs became sluggish and the intercostal muscles were increasingly reluctant to contract. He felt himself drifting out of his body again and looked down on the bound and bloodied human being lying limp on the concrete floor.

His existence faded to grey and dissolved into tiny spots of flickering light.

_Is that me? This is how I die? Respiratory arrest due to a heroin overdose? A junkie´s death for me. Always an addict._

_How disappointing._

Darkness tugged at his being. Oblivion called him into nothingness. Sherlock broke out into cold sweat as his lungs ceased inhaling. Without oxygen cardiac arrest would follow next. He screamed internally at the injustice of everything. He had a task to fulfil.

There were people who needed him.

There was one person who genuinely _cared_ about him.

Why had he not thought of John Watson before?

The handsome army doctor. The kind ex-soldier who had been so friendly towards his junkie alter ego. The handsome man with the stunning ocean blue eyes who had looked at Sherlock in awe and had tolerated his acerbic tongue and quirky personality.

_I invited him to my flat today. John. He would have waited for me and I did not come. Dr. Watson. I would have asked him out for lunch and hopefully he would have accepted._

_Will he miss me at least a tiny bit when I´m gone? Will he be disappointed, too? I joked about appreciating to die in a wave of rapture and bliss due to overdosing myself when we talked the first time._

_How does the saying go? Be careful what you wish for, it might come true?_

Sherlock fell into the vast ballroom his mind palace had grown. It was flooded with sunlight and violin music filled the air with a comforting melody. Dr. John Watson stood in the middle and invited Sherlock with a fond gesture and a besotted smile to take his hand. They danced to the music in perfect synchronicity.

_The first and only person I´ve ever felt attracted to and I´m certain the feeling is mutual._

Ocean blue eyes followed Sherlock on his path to obliteration when his system went into neurological lockdown.

When consciousness seeped back into Sherlock´s brain for what had to be the umpteenth time it chose to linger instead of dissolving again into cotton-y oblivion after several minutes.

Sherlock was utterly surprised to have constantly regained it at all. When most of the numbing clogging density had retreated and memory of the forced-upon overdose had returned he was dumbfounded that he somehow had survived the ordeal.

 _Survived_ this _time. Must have been my high tolerance. But after all this time? Should be the other way round. Whatever. Maybe, just dumb luck. Anyway. What now?_

He took his time to update his physical and mental status and found both severely lacking.

He was parched, felt multiple pains and thinking was… stringy. Tiresome. Fractured. Memory limped back, slow and halting. He was still bound and incarcerated in this kennel and close to organ failure due to the heroin and dehydration. At the moment he was barely alive and that could change very quickly.

_I could still die. I will die. If I can´t get out._

_Have I been abandoned? Left as the corpse of an overdosing junkie?_

Sherlock reviewed the evidence he had gathered on the case of the missing rent boys which took him what felt like hours. His mind palace was in shambles, walls broken down, doors locked with debris from crumbled ceilings, upturned furniture, corridors ending nowhere, whole floors missing.

_Master did not leave his victims bound and gagged. He arranged a scenario to make the police believe it was a self-inflicted overdose after serving an extremely violent client._

_He returned and took Gerald´s body to dispose of it somewhere else when he overdosed me._

_Oh! Master will return to dispose of mine, too._

This realization was the silver lining on the horizon. Sherlock knew he had no chance to open the kennel´s door and to pick the lock because he had no chance to free his hands or feet. He was weak as a kitten. There was barely strength left for thinking. His body was unable to stir. He concentrated on breathing and ignored the assault of all the aches his body tormented him with.

_I´ll have to wait until he comes to get me. I´ll have to gather the rest of my energy to escape when he opens the door and unties me to carry me outside wrapped in a fucking garbage bag._

_I´ll have to fake being dead. That´s simple. I nearly am._

_I can hold my breath. Remain utterly still. But if he takes my pulse I´m fucked._

Time passed in lumpy portions only to be measured in the way it changed the light filtering through the light well behind his back. Sherlock tried to keep track and was halfway sure that nearly a whole day must have passed since the undesired heroin overdose. He had been lacking fluids for at least 48 hours and the dehydration was verging on critical but Sherlock was well beyond chastising himself for not drinking properly before he tailed Master.

He was also beyond plotting and planning his escape. He had resigned and accepted his impending death if Master would not return. If he did Sherlock would act on mere instinct. He could not think. He wished the waiting for either outcome would soon be over. His body had gone numb as his nerves were overburdened with emergency signals from everywhere. Which was at least some relief.

Most of the time he was stuck in his mind palace and strayed aimlessly around in search of the image of one special army doctor. John escaped him every time he got a glimpse of ocean blue eyes. It was so unfair. He liked John.

He could have done much more than just like him.

In the evening of the second day after Sherlock went to meet Gerald and the dealer, Master finally returned. To Sherlock the sudden neon light in his eye and the stomping sounds of booted feet in his ears felt like a physical assault. It was easy to remain unmoving as Master kicked him against the kneecap to confirm his death because he simply _couldn´t_ stir.

Master grunted with satisfaction. “Well. Well. Dead smackhead whore is always a good sight.“ He laughed maliciously.

Sherlock opened the one functioning eye to a slit and carefully took a look. He saw Master turning around grabbing at his back to get his hunting knife. An ice-cold shiver ran through the detective.

_Will he probe more? With the knife? He mutilated Missy´s body after his death…_

Master cut the rope at Sherlock´s ankles. Sherlock held his breath with relief flooding through.

_Will he free my wrists now? And will I be able to move my hands or legs at all?_

The handcuffs at his wrists were opened and wrenched away.

“Shit!“, Master swore, “forgot the fucking garbage bag.“ He huffed, clambered to his feet and exited the cellar. He left the hunting knife lying on the floor. The flash drive was still in its hideaway in the hilt.

If Sherlock was religious he would have sent a prayer of thanks heavenwards. Instead he stretched and rubbed his feet and massaged his wrists as much as he could. Sensation and blood flow was slow to return into his limbs. He had been bound so long. He snatched the knife, hid it behind his back and got back into position when he heard Master walking back down the stairs.

The tell-tale rustling of plastic foil revealed that Master was crouching beside him and spreading out the garbage bag. Sherlock took one last cautious glance through his eye, gauged the distance to Master´s neck and aimed at the jugular vein.

The sore and numb muscles in Sherlock´s arm made the attempted thrust way too slow. Master caught the motion in the corner of his eye, tilted his head away and yanked his hand up trying to protect his face.

The edge of the knife grazed Master´s lower arm and easily cut along the skin. Master screamed but even startled as he had to be, considering that a supposedly dead body attacked him, he showed awesome reflexes. Sherlock felt strong hands wrap around his bruised wrists as Master loomed above him, pinning down his arms above his head and banging his hand against the concrete until the knife flew away.

Sherlock was lying on his back with the full weight of Master on him. The energy he could muster before was nearly exhausted. Master was so close to him that Sherlock felt the heat of the murderer´s breath on his face. In an act of pure desperation and knowing that his very last chance to get away had come, Sherlock reared up. He brought his head and knee upwards with every force he had left.

Sherlock headbutted Master square on the nose and kneed him in the groin. The other man grunted, exhaled und collapsed onto the detective. Out cold. Just like that. 

Sherlock shoved and wriggled to free himself. He rolled onto his front and scrambled onto all fours. Every muscle and bone ached and he fumbled pulling the disgusting gag out of his parched mouth. Not willing to take a risk he grabbed the knife and hit the hilt firmly against Master´s temple where the man would definitely be knocked out for good.

The detective quickly searched Master´s pockets, retrieved keys for the kennel lock, the building and the pickup. He stuffed it all into the pockets of his hoodie along with a wallet. The hoodie was stiff from dried blood and was getting soaked again where the gash on his collarbone had reopened during the skirmish.

He crawled out of the kennel, slammed the door, locked it and allowed himself to sag against a wall and merely breathe. Another wave of relief flooded his brain. It felt disconcertingly like shooting up cocaine.

_I´m free._

He had escaped his immanent death. Not only had he survived the forced overdose but weakened as he was he had also managed to subdue Master in the end.

_But I failed saving Gerald. And I´m not safe myself, yet._

Pushing himself up against the wall Sherlock stared stupidly at the red fingerprints he left. He realized belatedly that in the palm of his hand was a new and deep slash dripping with blood. He must have been cut during the brief struggle with Master.

_I´m not making the same mistake twice and miss the second culprit coming._

His fingers flexed and moved without fault so there was obviously no damage done to any tendons. Sherlock used the hunting knife to cut off a sleeve of his hoodie and used the fabric as a makeshift bandage. The bleeding slowed down.

_And now I´m going to get the fuck out of here._

Sherlock´s thoughts came in sudden bouts with long pauses in between and were not completely coherent. He moved in a remote-controlled way, only noticing now and then that somehow his whereabouts had changed.

_I have to find Lestrade. I have to find water. I have to find John._

He was on the outside in the parking lot. Late evening had come and the place was dark. It had rained. Sherlock stumbled towards the pickup and tripped over his own feet. He fell and landed with a splash in a large oily puddle where the tarmac had cracked and had formed a huge pothole now filled with dirt and mud of all sorts.

The sudden cold wetness came like an electrifying shock to his body. He mused about how he´d always found it utterly embarrassing for people to drown in a shallow puddle. Now he understood how that worked.

_Oh. Oh!_

_Puddle means rain. Rain means fresh water. Water means drinking._

Sherlock got onto his feet and lurched towards the outdoor kennels. In one he found a forgotten dog bowl filled with rain. He sank onto his knees, reverently took the holy grail of water to his cracked lips and drank for the first time in about two and a half days. He nearly cried out of gratitude.

The following drive to New Scotland Yard did not really register in Sherlock´s brain. He managed to steer the pickup somehow without blacking out and causing an accident. Three thoughts prevailed which egged him to carry on. They were playing in his mind on infinite loop like a broken record.

_One: Find Lestrade._

_Two: Give him knife with flash drive._

_Three: Only fall unconscious after that._

Sherlock was delirious and feverish when he left the pickup near NSY and stumbled to the entrance of the underground car park. He knew that Lestrade would smoke a cigarette before driving home and decided to wait for him in the niche with the skips where he sagged against the brick wall too exhausted to take another step, to keep himself standing or even to think straight.

When Sherlock saw Lestrade lighting a cigarette across the street he scrambled to his feet and summoning his very last reserve of energy he went to set thought number two into action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don´t want to die. I want more time. Quoting the movie “Third Star“ here.


	20. ATTRACTION

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a long journey is coming to its fluffy end. Thank you all for taking this trip with me.  
> Posting the chapters and creating the teasers has been a lot of fun and the comments, hits and kudos I got have been very rewarding.  
> Currently I´m a bit sad now that Mutual Attraction ends here for me, posting-wise.  
> I´m thinking about embedding all the teasers into the actual text one day.  
> I´ll definitely keep writing fanfic and I´ve already begun a new one, so if you like me as a writer, subscribe to me on AO3 and you´ll be notified when there´s something new.  
> Enough talking, let´s get into the good stuff: Attraction!

Love like a storm, like an ocean, endless

Love like a fire, like the world is burning

But you see through all the lines and then

Prove like I´m not all of them

If your love is just a dream, don´t wake me up

It´s hard enough to face the world alone

Open Water, blessthefall

For Sherlock it took only one day being stuck in hospital to feel like punching everyone and everything. To be precise, it took him only six hours of being _conscious_ in hospital. He´d spent the last night and most of this morning with finally coming back to his senses and staying back but since he was now fully aware of his surroundings it sucked. Ultimately.

He´d already begun to harass the nurses, threaten the doctors and overall be his most annoying self (achieving that proved rather simple) but the staff were still adamant that he´d have to stay at least for another day to be discharged (achieving being released out of this prison earlier proved rather difficult).

_There´s Mycroft´s filthy hands all over this. Conspiring, scheming, plotting older brother!_

He hated hospitals to the very core of his being. It was all about undesired memories from his stints in rehab. He hated being cooped up. He hated feeling trapped. He hated not being able to decide what to do or where to go and when to leave. He hated being ordered about.

_I would not mind being ordered about by a specific ex-army captain though._

He missed Dr. Watson. John. It took Sherlock a long time to admit that even to himself but he´d really like John visiting him here. But why should he in the first place? He had no idea where Sherlock was. He had not come to their appointment and the distrustful doctor would have thought that Sherlock just messed around with him. So, John would have enough of Sherlock´s annoying behaviour, would cut his losses and would have decided that trying to get to know Sherlock better was far too much effort and not really worth his time.

_In the end they always leave me. Even if it´s not my fault in the first place._

_I could slip him a message under his bedsit door and explain everything. Would be better than actual talking. I´m crap at conversation. I could better express myself via text, more time to weigh my words and not fuck it up._

Sighing, Sherlock remembered that he literally could not leave at the moment. He was still hooked up on an infusion to cure his dehydration and there was a heart monitor attached to him as well as a pulse oximeter. He knew that tearing them away would alarm the whole ward and even if he´d like to make them all run around just to spite them he also knew that surviving his capture had been a close call.

Not that he would ever admit he had desperately needed medical care. “I was fine and I had everything under control” he would say afterwards even if he knew that the others knew he had not been fine and that they knew he knew they knew as well and so on and… well.

When he had found D.I. Lestrade in front of New Scotland Yard and his stupid transport had finally betrayed him (again) the relief flooding him had been so enormous that Sherlock simply had collapsed right into Lestrade´s arms. Like a damsel in distress. No more strength to do anything. Like keeping his consciousness for example.

_God gracious, how more embarrassing could it have become? I´ll never hear the end of it. Anderson and Donovan would have a field day. Anyway, I solved the case._

_That means if Lestrade was smart enough to find the flash drive in the knife´s hilt. Hopefully he did. Must have. As long as he had not passed the evidence right up to Anderson. Good Heavens. Then they´ll never find it. The moron will only fixate on the blood on the blade and… I have to text Gus immediately._

_Where is my damn phone?_

In his defence, the injuries he had suffered before had been quite serious. The doctors diagnosed him with severe dehydration, a swelling in his brain due to a procrastinated concussion _and_ a fresh one on top the old and the results of a heroin overdose were the most prominent medical issues Sherlock had to face. He had been lucky that his kidneys did not fail.

Completely fail.

Meaning one had still been functioning.

With about 30% of its normal capacity.

_Didn´t I say to John filtering is boring when I made him count the kidney maggots? Ugh, the irony of history._

_He was not put off by that, more like disbelievingly amused. He´d agreed to see me again after the case was finished._

Sherlock had been more afraid that the savage slashing of his shoulder and especially the deep and long cut across the palm of his hand (he still could not recall how exactly that defensive wound had happened) would leave some damage that might interfere with his violin playing skill. Both wounds had been stitched and firmly bandaged but the doctors had assured Sherlock he would regain full movement and flexibility if he did not mess around with his hand too early.

They also fixed two broken and two partially fractured ribs resulting in Sherlock feeling like a tightly wrapped sushi roll at the moment with minimal remaining movement in his torso.

The obvious gunshot wound in his calf had caused a lot of questioning when he had first woken up (John´s immaculate stitches having miraculously survived the whole ordeal unharmed) which he had adamantly refused to answer.

Later after another nap due to pure exhaustion they told him one D.I. Lestrade had visited while he had been asleep and that the man had vouched for him but they still gave him a stern eye pressing that the gunshot issue was not over yet.

_Morons. As if I´d tell them John had tended to the wound and not reported him to the police. As if I´d risk him losing his medical degree over that act of kindness._

They had to set his broken nose and claimed that there was no further damage done to the bones in his face from the beating he had received but that he would not be able to properly use the one eye for the next time since the massive swelling needed time to heal.

The least of his medical problems were the multitude of haemorrhages on his body and the deep abrasions on his knees. These had to be thoroughly cleansed as there had been a lot of small dirt (or whatever) particles encrusted between all the blood and his tissue. The first signs of infection (with whatever) had been treated with antibiotic salve.

D.I. Greg Lestrade had really been scared that Sherlock would not make it this time. There were so many bruises on him, he shuddered, keeping himself from thinking too much about the awful moment when he finally recognised that the human wreck in front of him was his friend (from his side he definitely was one). An obnoxious, annoying, maddening, petulant, rude friend. A brilliant, caring and funny in a dry sarcastic sort of way friend.

Greg had visited his own personal consulting detective late this morning to talk with him about the now more or less wrapped up case of the murdered rent boys. At least that was the reason he would give Sherlock as to why he wanted to visit him in hospital. In fact the solving of the case was nice to have but all he really cared about at the moment was Sherlock´s well-being and outlook of recovery. But if he would tell that to the prickly man he would probably jump right into Greg´s face, ranting about inane sentiments and most likely pulling his stitches in the process. Git.

Better to keep things on a professional basis then at first. Yet, somewhere deep down Greg already knew he would not manage. He had been so shocked when Sherlock collapsed in front of him, so injured and weak.

He was also so pissed that the utter idiot always forgot the most basic instincts concerning self-preservation. He would not desist from grilling Sherlock until he had gotten satisfying answers out of him. Hospitalization be damned.

There was for instance the issue with the vivid track marks on his arms. He knew of course of the tox screen the hospital had performed and had sort of blackmailed the lab worker into revealing the confidential results by threatening to tell his superior of the worker´s petty thefts.

_Sherlock would be in fact very proud of me. “Finally rubbing off on your observational skills, am I not?“ he´d say in that posh condescending voice and smirk that mischievous lopsided smile. The wanker._

Anyway, the lab results confirmed heroin but nothing else illicit and here was the puzzle.

Greg knew Sherlock preferred stimulants, especially cocaine since he had relapsed now and again. But never to an amount that would match the current ghastly mass of injection marks on his elbows. So, what had he taken this time? He won´t have gone for heroin. So was it all fake? Hopefully. Greg did not want to think about Sherlock turned junkie again.

Lestrade knew that Sherlock was a master faker of everything he would set his mind upon and also knew through painful experience that the consulting detective would not shy away from doing such a thing to fit his undercover persona. Everything for the case. The videos on the flash drive confirmed that he had posed as a rent boy. Never thinking about telling Greg what he was up to in the first place. Or maybe get some backup. The prat.

They would have a loud argument over that issue. Again. For the umpteenth time. Which would result in nothing. Again. For the umpteenth time. But at least Greg would have tried to beat some common sense into that extraordinary thick brain of Sherlock. Again. For the umpteenth time.

Since the brain in question had been sound asleep when Lestrade visited the first time he just returned to the Yard to face yet another press conference (Sally Donovan was thankfully back to sit in front of the bloodhounds) concerning the serial killing of the junkie streetwalkers, explaining that the culprit had been arrested and had proudly confirmed himself he had killed four of them. Currently he was still questioned about the details of his crimes and victims. The other two bodies had been retrieved from their hiding places and were examined in the morgue at this moment.

Greg had simply sighed as the doctors had asked him about a days old unreported gunshot wound in Sherlock´s calf. He realized quickly that the ex-army doctor John Watson must have been the one to tend to the injury (expertly stitched up). The doctor had claimed Sherlock had been in need for his medical assistance when Greg asked him without giving further details. Confidentiality and so on.

John Watson had been keeping Sherlock´s secrets in more than one way already.

He had even withstood Mycroft Holmes, for God´s sake.

Greg really acknowledged the unwavering loyalty of John Watson to a personality like Sherlock´s and since the doctor was on his way to become another friend of his consulting detective he had just shrugged the issue away and vouched for Sherlock to the doctors deleting quickly any knowledge about illegal guns and illegal medical assistance.

 _Rubbing off on you again, am I not?_ Sherlock´s voice droned in his head again.

So, Greg Lestrade was back in hospital in the late afternoon and obviously Sherlock was awake since his acerbic shouting could be well heard in the corridor in front of his room.

“I do NOT need your inane drug counselling. I know definitely more about brain chemistry than you´ll ever manage. Just piss off!“, followed by a loud bang of something metallic hitting a wall.

Greg jumped out of the way just in time to not get overrun by a young male social worker storming out red-faced to disappear cussing loudly about ungrateful worthless junkie arseholes.

_OK, good, so going right for biting his throat._

“Which chemicals exactly have altered your brain chemistry this time?“ Greg asked smoothly as he barged into Sherlock´s room, not that the man would have appreciated polite knocking anyway.

“For Heaven´s Sake, not you, too. The murderer was deliberately overdosing me on heroin which is not my fault and not my drug of choice, as you of all people should well know. Why are you all so dumb to not realize the track marks are faked?“ Sherlock groused.

His uninjured hand flew upwards to press against the bandages on his shirtless torso. He slumped back hissing in pain. Shouting was a bit not good with broken ribs it seemed. Maybe hurling metal trays against walls was not, too.

First of all Greg was relieved to find Sherlock recovered enough to throw a strop. On second thought he looked clearly as miserable as the day before. Bruises in vibrant shades of purple, red and blue made his face look like a failed attempt on horror movie makeup, his normally angular aristocratic features swollen beyond recognition. The one functioning eye though shot him an acerbic glare effortlessly sufficing for two.

“Because you´ve been an addict and relapsed before?“ Greg jibed good-naturedly while dragging a chair close to the bed.

The indignant snort and the following deep inhale told Greg that Sherlock was about shooting off another rapid-fire rant on the general stupidity of the human race, so he interrupted quickly before Sherlock would become so enraged that he´d simply just clam up out of spite.

“Because you´re so brilliant at faking them it´s hard to tell the difference? Because it would perfectly confirm your undercover junkie persona?“

Sherlock´s mouth snapped instantly shut. With a light plop even. A pleased expression settled on his mutilated face and the irascible genius started to smile smugly. Greg remembered something about genius needing an appreciating audience and congratulated himself on the right words managing to placate Sherlock in record time. Greg also felt certain that he was telling the truth about the track marks, which sent another tingling wave of relief through his spine.

“You found the flash drive“, Sherlock stated instead.

“Indeed. We also found and arrested the murderer thanks to you“, the D.I. acknowledged.

“Oh, yes. Good“, Sherlock nodded slightly, adding in an afterthought, “Who was it?“

“Come again?“

“What´s his name? And you do know he had a female accomplice?“ Sherlock blinked irritated.

“Sir Wybert Elric Birkenhead. How can you not know his name?“

Once more Sherlock Holmes had managed to utterly baffle the D.I., so he stared at his consulting lunatic who rolled one pale eye and switched into deduction mode, finally getting the chance to show off his mental prowess. Greg let him and he felt thankful that Sherlock´s head injury had not done any harm to this otherworldly brain.

Greg listened patiently as Sherlock explained in detail his conclusions concerning Gerald Summer.

How the heroin addicted hooker had blackmailed a man of public interest married to a woman with photos of him engaging in homosexual intercourse with prostitutes. That the fear of discovery ended in his suicide, leaving his brother and his wife on a revenge spree. That in the legacy they found a business card of Silverblack as the only lead to the blackmailer, so they broke into the research company and extracted a list with five names of drug addicted rent boys. Since they had no means to discern which one was the culprit they went after each of them and had no qualms to kill them all until the right one was found. How, by the way, they discovered that torturing and mutilating their victims was a satisfying sideline, thinking they were doing a good deed to rid the world of vile junkie scum. How they tried to mask the murders as drug overdoses after rough sexplay.

Sherlock´s tale became very evasive when he quickly brushed the topic how he found Master and Gerald, only to be captured as well and was about to become another collateral damage but survived the overdose, escaped with the flash drive and handed it over to the D.I.

Clearly exhausted after his long speech Sherlock sank back into the cushions. He massaged his temples with the good hand and closed his eye, sighing deeply and in obvious need of rest from the strenuous mental effort.

Lestrade was flooded by a wave of pity and concern. He had sensed that Sherlock was definitely upset that he could not have prevented Summer´s death since it was very unusual for him to skip so quickly over a topic.

Even if he had been mostly unconscious at the time which was definitely not his fault he must have been terribly distressed to witness the torturing and killing of Gerald Summer while being helpless and unable to save him. Sherlock was unused to failure since he was so brilliant and excelling most of the time in what he did. Because of that he always set himself ridiculously high standards. So, when he failed them (which rarely happened) he was exceptionally devastated with guilt for being “stupid“.

Greg wondered if Sherlock would ever be able to process that he was not Superman and was not expected to be Superman but was in fact a human being like everyone else (apart from his extraordinary brain) with feelings, vulnerability and need for comfort. But showing these made Sherlock extremely uncomfortable so he took refuge behind this sociopath mask he wore like a badge of honour. The git. Greg had seen through this ruse a very long time ago but to make Sherlock feel at ease he still went with it, at least when they were in public.

Greg really hoped that one day Sherlock would find someone else who could also see through this sociopath bullshit and discover the real Sherlock beneath. Having met Dr. Watson, Greg felt like seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.

When one ever colour changing eye opened again it was with a resentful glare.

“I solved the case. I found the murderer and the evidence. Why should I bother finding his name? What use would _you_ have if not even accomplishing that?“

_Oh, right. The sociopath is back at full throttle. Time for trying to pound some sense into his thick skull._

“The blackmail victim was Charles Richard Birkenhead, Member of Parliament and younger brother of Sir Wybert, married to Susan Alicia March, your female accomplice.“

Sherlock stared blankly at him. “You imply I should recognize know those names.“

“If you´d only pay attention to what happens in the real world now and then you could not have missed all the headlines in the yellow press speculating on the premature death and supposed suicide of a celebrity M.P. and his grieving widow.“

“Hmph. I don´t care about celebrities and who´s sleeping with whom. Boring. Tedious.“ Sherlock griped.

“Yeah, I know. But if you had, you might have found Sir Wybert earlier and maybe prevented Summer´s death.“ Greg shot back, suddenly irate with all this aloofness bollocks.

_Oops that slipped out harsher than I intended._

It was not Greg´s way delivering such a low blow to an already contrite Sherlock but maybe it was the time for something to penetrate this thick skull. Sherlock actually shut up for about five seconds which was another record for Lestrade. 

“Fuck you.“ The hurt expression which flitted over the bruised face made Greg immediately feel sorry.

“Shit, Sherlock, I´m sorry. I didn´t mean to guilt-trip you.“ He fisted a hand into his short cropped hair looking sideways in shame before he searched for eye contact with Sherlock again finding the emotional shields high up now behind a petulant death glare.

“It´s just…“, Greg he faltered and squared his shoulders to soldier on, “I mean, if you´d only _just once_ think about letting me in on your thoughts and not go haring off alone… if you´d asked me… I would have back-upped…“

The death glare intensified with each passing second.

“Look, I´m sorry for that low blow, it was unintentional but you always think you don´t need help and act as if your well-being doesn´t matter to anyone. I was worried about you, you moron!“

Sherlock snorted, looking out of the window but the way his mouth slacked showed his embarrassment and shame.

Greg balled his hands into fists fighting a sudden urge to punch something in frustration.

“Sherlock, listen, haring off into dangerous situations like that without at least telling someone is plainly stupid. You knew how dangerous Birkenhead was.“

“There was no fucking time when my contact called me. I had to follow Master at once.“ Sherlock cried angrily.

“Please, I know you relish insulting my intelligence but this is extreme. You could have called me _any time_ before! You would have died in that shitty kennel with nobody finding you. When will you just get it into your head that even the great consulting detective needs back-up now and then!“ Greg´s voice had become steadily louder.

Sherlock turned into a petulant toddler. “I had a perfect plan. I did _not_ plan to get my head bashed in.“

“Well, it was obviously not perfect. He already tried to shoot you once.“

“I subdued him! I just didn´t calculate there´d be an accomplice.“ Sherlock mumbled and looked at Greg slightly bashful.

Lestrade realized that this was as close to admitting a fault and apologizing as Sherlock would ever get which caused Greg to smile.

“So, you´re saying you did think but you did not contemplate?“

Sherlock gawked indignantly at the D.I. “Did you just rephrase one of my quotes at me?“

Greg tried his best impression of a Sherlockian Smug Smile “I did. Good deduction.“

“Well, I´m not impressed.“

They were discussing some details of the case when John Watson sauntered in after knocking softly at the door. Lestrade saw how Sherlock immediately perked up on seeing John and took it as a clue to leave. Standing up he nodded to Sherlock and patted Watson´s shoulder on his way out.

“He´s all yours. Good luck with him.“

John smiled a bit sheepishly at the D.I. but when his gaze met Sherlock´s battered frame he instantly stiffened in shock. Yet, before he could say anything Sherlock ogled him suspiciously through one squinted and blackened eye.

“You know each other, how?“

Falling out of his stunned state John grinned heartily and occupied the still warm seat where Greg had sat a minute before.

“And hello to you, too. I met him the day before yesterday pilfering your desk. He was searching for his badge while I was following your invitation to lunch. He called today and told me where you are.“

Sherlock instantly perked up again and the suspicious shadow veiling his eye was gone. John´s attention was like rays of sunlight caressing his shrivelled soul. His gaze became soft and he muttered “Oh. I… er… am sorry that I wasn´t… there.“

_So, John had come to have lunch with me and now he´s in hospital visiting me meaning that he was concerned enough about me missing our date and that he gave Lestrade his number and told him to alert him when I´d show up. Why was he even bothering?_

A sweet soft blush crept up Sherlock´s neck towards his face where it got lost in the black and blue marks. Yet, it did not escape John´s attention even as he switched into full doctor mode when he scrutinized every bruise, cut and bandage on Sherlock´s body.

“What the fuck has happened to you?“ John furrowed his brows, looking angry.

“Unimportant side effect of the undercover work.“ Sherlock tried to deflect in his usual aloof kind of way. He did not know if John was angry at him or at whatever else but it seemed best to avoid the topic if it aggravated the doctor.

Which did _absolutely_ _not_ work on John. On the contrary, it agitated the ex-army doctor so much to let him exclaim “Good gracious, Lestrade told me you nearly _died_. That´s definitely not unimportant!“

“Wouldn´t have pegged him for a gossip.“ Sherlock remarked flippantly, trying to smooth out the situation but clearly failed. Because the deceptively innocuous doctor gave a perfect impression of a porcupine with all his spikes raised. Sherlock could not quite deduce what he did wrong to make the doctor so prickly.

John shouted “I was worried about you, you berk!“

Sherlock blinked while trying to process that. In front of him stood John, lovely John, who fell into a rant right this moment. He rambled about what he did to find Sherlock, where he went to look for him, how he was concerned that something bad could have happened to him.

Sherlock did not really listen. He watched John pace around, clenching his hands at the side of his body, aggravated and ready to punch something. Or someone? Sherlock contemplated if John would punch _him_ again so that he completely missed when John had fallen silent and sat back in the chair.

_Wait, what?_

The doctor had physically assumed a combat-ready position. Which should have been impossible while sitting in an uncomfortable plastic hospital chair. It looked fucking intimidating.

_OK, that´s unexpected. Why?_

A warm tingling sensation ran through Sherlock´s whole body making his nervous ends sending fiery electrical waves everywhere burning his skin.

The doctor glared at him demanding an immediate answer by pure body language.

_I conclude that it has to be something concerning John being concerned about me. Which is... nice. And unexpected. Unusual. Strange. Scary even. He really cares about me. Me?_

_Adorable porcupine… Not helpful, Sherlock! Placate him, now. But how?_

Sherlock hesitated and visibly braced himself in an effort to gain his confidence back which John realized was utterly out of character even having known the detective for only several days.

“It´s… nice… that you… found the time to visit… me. Here?“ Sherlock hemmed and hawed.

_Where has my eloquence gone to? I sound like a blathering idiot. That´s not attractive._

_Why do I want to seem attractive?_

John relaxed a tiny bit asking casually “Why would I not visit you here?

Sherlock was out of his depths and blinked stupidly, again. Maybe something was wrong with his the good eye, too. He shrugged awkwardly, avoided John´s gaze and remained mute.

“Did you actually think I wouldn´t ask myself if you´re in trouble when you didn´t show up?“

“Yes?“

_Oops. Should not have said that._

The doctor bristled: “For crying out loud! I was really worried. You´ve been shot at before. So deduce what I thought when you were missing our appointment at Baker Street.“

Sherlock shrugged uncertainly again while kneading his long fingers nervously into the bedsheet.

“That you finally had enough of my obnoxious personality and quit trying to befriend me?“

John just stared blankly back at Sherlock, his mouth sort of slack in incredulity. “I should feel insulted by what you insinuate.“

Sherlock cringed visibly. He held up his palms in an attempt to appease and muttered shyly “I´m sorry. I´m such a fuck up at social interactions and relationships or having friends. So you… care… about me?“

John snorted exasperatedly and threw his hands into air. “How on Earth can someone as brilliant as you also be so utterly thick? Of course I care about you, you git!“

Another heat wave rolled through Sherlock and he sent a dopey happy smile at John. The movement made his split lip reopen and had him inadvertently wince at the stabbing pain as he fingered the cut.

John´s brows furrowed again, yet this time Sherlock was sure the glare was not directed at him but the person who´d punched him.

“Just look what they´ve done to your beautiful face“, slipped out of John´s mouth which turned the doctor into the one who cringed internally.

But Sherlock instantly beamed widely despite the bruised lip “You find my face beautiful?“

This time Sherlock was for once thankful for the purple bruises because they made the new vigorous blush creeping onto his cheekbones invisible.

John noticed it anyway.

“Well not right now, since it looks like a living punching bag.“ John fled into deflection by cracking a joke because he felt a very visible blush creeping up _his_ cheekbones as well.

Of course, Sherlock noticed, too.

_I like John´s face when he blushes. Oh, it deepens. His eyes are so blue. Radiant. The colour´s named ultramarine blue, number 5002 on the RAL palette…_

Sherlock realized something was amiss.

_Bugger, I said that out loud. What does he make of me musing in florid sentiments about blue?_

But he must have accidentally said the right thing because the blushing doctor beamed at him with sparkling ultramarine eyes. Sherlock basked in their light shining benignly down on him. He could get addicted to them. Scratch that. He already was addicted. Beyond any hope.

_I have to find myself a dress shirt matching that striking blue._

John looked mesmerized at the one visible iris of Sherlock´s. It was always changing dependent on the light. He´d figured them out as blue grey but discovered that they could look green in a certain angle. Grey green. Blue green? Bluegreygreen!

_How can I find a jumper matching that colour? Sherlock could definitely tell me the RAL numbers of each hue, the lunatic._

They talked about the case. John was asking a lot of questions being interested in every detail and expressing his amazement on Sherlock´s deductions continuously. Which made Sherlock ridiculously happy.

John also didn´t hold back with a thorough scolding expressing his amazement of Sherlock´s utter lack of sense for self-preservation. Which made Sherlock ridiculously frazzled. And ashamed. Which was ridiculous in its own kind of way.

Sherlock literally gnashed his teeth “I´ve already had my dressing down from Lestrade, you don´t have to join him.“

“Right. Someone has to try getting some sense into you.“ John replied, unfazed by the sudden burst of annoyance.

“Are you volunteering?“ Sherlock jibed and instantly thought “Good God, I´m actually flirting with John Watson.”

“Do I have to fill in an application form?“ John quipped back.

_Good Heavens, I flirted with Sherlock Holmes._

Sherlock graced John with his most underwhelmed look “The job interview will take place two days from now at six sharp. Dinner at Angelo´s“, quickly ruining his attitude because a brilliant hopeful smile made his face light up, “Will you come?“

“You bet! Too late for scaring me off.“

When John had to leave he was already out of the door but popped his head back in again smiling “Till Angelo´s.“ Then he winked at Sherlock.

John winked. At Sherlock.

John had winked at Sherlock.

Sherlock wondered if John was always like that. He actually had a date. With John. Who was looking forward to it. Sherlock was very much looking forward to it, too. This was entirely awesome.

Having a date obviously amounted in Sherlock Holmes, one and only Consulting Detective, showing his best behaviour and _total_ _compliance_ to ensure his release the day after tomorrow. Somehow that made the hospital staff even more wary around him, but Sherlock was completely unobservant for once.

Then came The Evening when both men finally met at Angelo´s.

Both had been on the very edge the last hours before. What should they wear? Should they bring a present? Was it actually a date? Like in a romantic date? What were adequate topics to talk about? Would the other expect to receive compliments? Or was that too sappy? Too early? What? Why? If? And so on and so on…

Both wondered what they could do to appear most appealing to the other. Both were at a loss. Both decided after hours of frantic ruminating (on John´s side) and googling (on Sherlock´s side) to just be themselves as they had already been themselves before and yet it still had not repelled the other one.

Sherlock wore the same purple shirt and pristine black suit he had when he first presented the real “Sherlock“ to John instead of the always filthy “Shezza“, remembering John´s aroused reaction to that look.

John wore a pair of newly bought black jeans with a light blue polo shirt under his favourite oatmeal jumper. The jeans accentuated his behind because John remembered Sherlock ogling him there in his bedsit.

Both complimented the other´s great looks, both blushed. Both awkwardly watched the other before they admitted to feeling awkward at the same time because of their lack of dating experience (on Sherlock´s side) and respectively the long time to the last date (on John´s side).

That broke the ice as both grinned and decided to just go for it.

When Angelo, the huge cuddly bear type owner of the restaurant, lit the candle on their table in a cosy niche claiming it to be more romantic, John grinned “I wouldn´t have pegged you as the romantic type.“

Sherlock, abashed for once in his life, blabbed “I´m not romantic. That´s just Angelo´s crooked way of thinking…“, trailing off before ending lamely, “…to help people. With that. Thing.“ He violently blushed and fiddled with the candleholder.

“Calm down, you. It´s Ok and I´ll tell nobody.“ John carefully reached out and let his fingers tentatively rest on Sherlock´s, soothing the twiddling motions.

Sherlock did not withdraw his hand. Fascinated, he looked at their hands and visibly swallowed.

“I like that“, he murmured.

John was delighted and feeling bold he went to entwine his fingers with Sherlock´s. He felt the slightest of tremors running through the detective´s hand after his confession.

“So you swing both ways, John?“

“Yeah. Guess so. You only like men?“ John drove his other hand through his hair.

Sherlock hesitated “If I ever felt something like attraction at all, it was to a male.“

John nodded “Hm, that´s fine.“

“I know it´s fine.“

John licked his lips. “So you´re unattached. Just like me.“

“I always considered myself married to my work“, Sherlock retorted, adding as he saw John´s betrayed look, “but I´m thinking of cheating on the work right now.“

“I´d for once appreciate cheating.“

The way John´s face lit up meant everything for Sherlock. It made him brave enough for another confession.

“When Master overdosed me, I thought of the unfairness of it all. That I would be robbed of the chance to see you again. You, the one person who genuinely liked me. The only person I ever really felt attracted to.“

Wonderful John Watson squeezed his hand tightly never letting it go while assuring “It´s mutual for me, too.“

Sherlock smiled at John, letting his happiness show. The emotional shields that had always been there before were down. He trusted John with his true self. The vulnerable sentimental insecure part of his self. Seeing that, John internally swore to always protect this delicate side of Sherlock´s and do whatever it might take to ensure his trust. It was time for his confession, too.

“I didn´t know what happened to me. After our first meeting you were always on my mind and I realized that I was attracted to you. I deemed you a homeless drug addict and I still liked you. Like like-like.“

Sherlock snorted “ That´s an awful alliteration.“

“Shut up, smartypants. First, I was so irritated. I mean, you were annoying, you were filthy and you pickpocketed me and I still could not get you out of my mind. I was asking myself if I´d gone insane.“

Sherlock smirked “Well, you just fell for my good looks.“

“Pah!“

“Stunning personality?“

John groaned “You should be thankful the hoodie´s vile stench didn´t make me fall unconscious.“

Sherlock immediately felt sorry for that (again) and apologized. “It was for a case, John.“

Neither of them knew that this explanation would be around an awful lot in their future relationship.

They clinked their glasses filled with rich red wine imported from the estate in Italy where Angelo´s parents met and Sherlock went on explaining how he got him off a murder charge. John hung on every word leaving Sherlock´s lips.

Angelo brought a huge plate with a delicious selection of _antipasti_ , declaring excitedly “It´s on the house“, while his gaze lingered shortly on the entwined hands on the table. “I knew the candlelight would work!“ he mumbled under his breath with a shit-eating grin before turning to head off for the kitchen, making John and Sherlock chuckle fondly.

“I guess that´s the final confirmation that candle magic actually works“, John joked.

“Did you know that the voodoo priestesses light black candles before they slaughter a black chicken making the blood splash…“, Sherlock rambled on, detailing loads of gory knowledge.

John did not mind in the least. Sometime into Sherlock´s monologue he stopped listening at all and nodded only now and then in an attempt to show confirmation. What he really concentrated on were the movements of Sherlock´s cupid-bowed lips.

Angelo reappeared with two huge plates filled with their pasta dishes and they both were reluctant to letting go of the other´s hand but there was no way of eating foot long spaghetti with only one. Especially with one hand still bandaged as in Sherlock´s case.

Their fingers itched without the warmth the other had provided. The feeling of benevolent touch was missing and hurt like an open wound. Then again, wonderful John Watson had a brilliant idea and used one foot, having secretly discarded his shoe under the table, to make contact with Sherlock´s shinbone. The detective reciprocated at once.

They ate in companioable silence, being completely devoted to the delicious taste of the noodles and the rich bouquet of the wine made them just a tiny bit tipsy. When they finished their hands entwined again. John reverently licked his lips and that sight (or maybe the unusual amount of alcohol - probably both) made Sherlock bold.

“So. John. I assume your food was delectable. Or is it the company you´re in and the danger I embody?“

Sherlock directed a sultry eyed gaze at the doctor followed by a conspiratorial wink. At least he assumed he did, John rather thought that Sherlock maybe was a bit myopic and perhaps should wear glasses.

Anyway, the doctor gazed lovingly at his new friend and laughed. “Yes, all of that“, adding with a slight hint of exasperation, “but how am I supposed to keep you safe if you´re throwing yourself head-first into perilous situations like that?“

Sherlock grinned roguishly. “Oh, is that your new job now? Protecting me? I haven´t seen your application form yet.“

“Friends protect each other“, John chastised.

Sherlock squirmed a bit being unaccustomed to feel contrite. “I´m not used to having friends.“

“Well you have one now. So you better get used to it.“

“Normally, people don´t like me.“

“I´m not people.“

Sherlock shyly replied “No, you´re extraordinary.“ He reached for his wine glass and took a large gulp to cover up his abashment.

“Right. So tell me, genius, how can I protect you if you´re keeping me distant?“

Sherlock unknowingly squeezed John´s hand tighter before he took the final step over the edge of his emotional chasm. He just hoped he would not plunge to his death but get carried safely to the other side.

“Move in with me and you´ll always be close.“ Suddenly he was terrified of John´s reaction. Had he spoiled everything?

But the doctor took it in stride and gave nothing away when he inquired neutrally “What status would I have if I did?“

Sherlock could no help the bout of mischief that hit him. “My Housekeeper?“ he suggested with sparkling eyes.

John snorted. “Try again!“

“You´re definitely the more domestic type.“

“Piss off.“

“Flatmate then?“ Sherlock placated.

“Better.“

“As my friend?“

“Much better but still not good enough.“

Sherlock braced himself and muttered quietly “As my _boy_ -friend then?“

John smiled benignly “Yes, that´s it.“

Despite the colourful explosions of neurotransmitters flooding Sherlock´s brain and drowning him in an unbelievable amount of giddy happiness he needed to state the obvious.

“You should know that I´m easily bored, messy, rude, weird and don´t respect personal boundaries.“

“I know, I´ve met you before, remember?“

“I´ll never do any household chores.“

“Having seen your flat I already _deduced_ that.“

Sherlock couldn´t supress an eye roll. “I´ll have body parts in the fridge.“

John gave Sherlock a firm stare “You´ll put them a separate container.“

Sherlock pouted and John laughed again.

“My turn. I have PTSD and nightmares, I´m easily angered, am attracted to dangerous situations and people. But you know that, of course.“ Sherlock nodded.

“I´ll write a blog about our cases“, John added.

That made Sherlock groan before he blurted out “So you´ll move in me then. I have a spare bedroom. If you think we´ll be needing two.“

“Oh. No, of course we will be needing two…“

Hearing that, Sherlock visibly recoiled and frantically interrupted John, feeling highly embarrassed and his face quite red. “Oh my God, John, I´m so sorry, I didn´t think… I didn´t mean… please don´t…“

And got interrupted by John instead. “Shut up, you!“

Sherlock flinched, eyes wide and upset, snapping his mouth shut.

“You stupid git should really let me finish my sentences.“

An endearingly hopeful expression crossed Sherlock´s face.

“I was about to say, No, of course we will be needing _to_ share your bedroom.“ John leant forward over the table.

“Oh God, yes!“ Sherlock leant forward, too.

John closed the gap and then they kissed.

It was not a chaste kiss.

You are the one I waited for, I knew it all along

You are the one I´m fighting for, I knew it all along

Open Water, blessthefall


End file.
